Some moss and meltwater

flashing in the placid gulch.

The delicate theatrics

of any flower’s mouth.

All the tranquil angles

quilted into a female face.

The hand that was made

to touch

the saddest parts of trees.


Where does gentleness go

when softness shuts down?

How does kindness survive

the numb rage of global heartbreak?

How can one be expected

to opt for heroic tenderness

when brutality is the bride of success?


Several blackbirds knitting

cadences in mid-air. A child

murmuring to the daymoon.

Grass lost to the winter

finding its green heart again.


Today is the first day of Spring

and here is my little pagan prayer:

That gentleness may find you,

no matter who or where you are,

and open all the disheartened

parts of you that perhaps

you did not even know were closed.