Enigma

it is the plaintive lament of the sojourner,
his curiosity directed to discovering
what is the fate of the roots,
once them loosed of the Ground?
~ ~ ~

Seafaring

I am of the sea,
starched, awash in brine,
battered, dizzy at the helm,
wind-whipped, countenance corroded,
sun-dried, hardened at the edges,
decaying, rough-hewn of the Ages,
replenish, inter me where the tide is High.
~ ~ ~

Immortal

disclaim me not
In mahogany nor pine,
but find me ashes
blowing in the Wind
~ ~ ~

Here

what is it my love,
this angel comes when the moon does not look
by stealth in the wee hours amidst the blackness,
finds my cheek and there her lips imprinted
for me to find at morn’s first light,
left to reassure,
to tell uncertainty will never overcome Me?
~ ~ ~

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