Deep carvings into the surface,
People seem to pay
More attention to the impressions
Than to the wood itself.

Yet the wood is dense & durable;
Reliable, trusty.
Though prone to dents,
A beautiful stain
Made up of life's chapters
Colors all sides.

It is no object,
But a living thing,
Born of a tree
That sprouted from the earth
Out of the dirt & worms.

It shot up towards the sky & planets
Crying out for-
Aiming for the great bodies
That harbor mystery & astrologies.

This wood once bore swollen fruit,
That hung like balloons,
Waiting
To rise up.

This wood is art,
Shaped and sanded from experience-
To function as beauty
To function as charity.

It is not a statue of laziness.
It is not a tool of greed.
It is transforming.

Forgive thyself for the unforgettable

Dissecting under the magnifying glass,
Poking and prodding,
Looking for answers,
But there is no why
(or why not).
Those are the wrong questions to ask.
I just am.
My feelings just are--
Raw, unapologetic,
Burning green fire,
Hissing emotive logs,
fueling my essence.
My passion
Rising
Every rising
As smoke & glowing ash--
A gift to the world
to not return or recant.
My spirit flies freely
Forever floating forward.