Poetry

I could never paint the beauty that my eyes can see.

The closest I can get to it is by the way I shape these words

to form the twists and curves of plants

that shoot and spiral out of the earth

which raise their arms ‘hello‘ to the sun.

And the wet earth, oh how it smells,

like birth and death and everything between that is suspended within time and gravity

I grow older and fonder of the touch of the wind and the whisper of friends.