Summer
Wading through waist deep foxtails (swept
by the brooms
of the wind) she
could smell their gold on siroccos
wafting up in mirage creating waves.

Not a cloud
in the sky, or a
bird
in the air
but that one lone black old vulture
his wingspan a man's height across.

Art Exhibit
fallen blue leaves
translucent glass
scattered on a table
illuminated

rest breathlessly
upon white cloth
still, cold
as glass

Seeking
She'd been knocking all the while,
Striving to get in,
Searching for truth, love, joy fulfilled,
Her knees sank in exhaustion.
She raised her voice as her fists grew weak,
"Where is the Master of this house?"
No answer came, and for weeks still she pled,
Forbidding her eyes to close.

As she prevailed a passing squire
Found her in this plight;
"Who do you seek so earnestly
In this dark, foreboding night?"
"I seek a place dry of all tears,
And flowing with life."

"Who is the Master of such a land?"
Asked the squire with a smile,
"And why should He let you in, may I ask?"
He had a scroll with deeds listed vile;
The woman read and saw her own ways -
"I have failed, trial after trial."
And, knowing this, she pulled hard at the door,
With a strength not of her own style:
There He stood, with a purple sash on His arm -
He'd been knocking all the while!