A bit of honey upon the bread makes it oh so tasty and sweet
but oft times we forget the honey and the bread
and just grab a mouthful of cornmeal
instead.

And I can’t express what is in my heart, but then
when have I ever had that express desire
fulfilled?

And oh I’m waiting
as the autumn leaves float down around my head
and oh I’m waiting
for something more than promises of breathless hope to here remain
for something more than promises of fragile tea mugs in their alcoves
for something more than promises of lighted candles upon the windowsill
and oh I’m waiting
oh oh I’m waiting
for leaves of summer to crown my brow
someday soon
someday
and then shall I weep anew for fulfillment sweet
and so I’m waiting
for that crimson sunset
and in-drawn breath
before the silence
before the storm,
before the long
lost called home.

Meanwhile listen
for that true music,
echoing of ages past
echoing of age to come
echoing achingly
painfully
wonderingly
wonderfully
staggeringly
beautiful
and so
listen closely, for it still sings
faintly yes,
but it still sings.

And better now than scattered crumbs of mercury and steel,
the true bread rests upon the plate, invitingly warm and hearty,
even a little bit of honey drizzled sweet,
that worn old book sings to me anew,
not faintly now.
Sometimes yes,
but not the now.

i have loved too many times
to now muster up my feelings yet once more
and try again for that wistful sigh
sideways glancing through the rain
maybe now it’s different
actually no
i don’t think it will be so
only vinyl & I
skipping forward through the rain

A crowning of clouds hugs the sky,
deep and lusciously does it lie,
a bit like a blanket atop the bed,
the type that makes you want to snuggle deeper,
never wanting to get out and up and start your day.

And as the eastern horizon slowly catches fiery light,
it seems to be an assumed fact that this day will
roll on like all the rest.
This may be assumed, I suppose – as most days do indeed roll on.
But what does this say of us that we have lost our sense of wonder
of the dawn?

And so now, see now,
we most diligently employ these fancy wrappers and this coiffed hair and these most proper accouterments
to carry ourselves as high and lofty persons,
but so now, see now,
though we style ourselves as a grand affair,
fragile and weak are we in and of ourselves for true,
and though we do a good job to hide that fact, our infirmities cripple us in a deeper sense
than merely what our eyes can see now.

Still I must acknowledge that our eyes lift to heaven and catch the dawning light
a bit like our flesh and bones and souls alike are crafted –
to the tune of that greater music
to the harmony of that more beautiful truth
to the song of that more truthful beauty.
and sweetly does that herald cry
of crowning glory from the sky.