Poetry

Take me back to the earth,
as I lay dying I lay breaking.
Come home lost son and wayward daughter,
it is still sanctuary where I am father.
Birds are born from flowers
and trees wear sylvan robes
of beautiful abandonment.
Friends and ghosts of a delta wedding
glimmer in the moonlit garden.  
Blow into my windows wild nature,
raise your children of inevitable
impermanent incongruous nature,
and I’ll be home when I am not
and I’ll be home when I am not.