The illness showed in many symptoms
but the cause lied layers deep,
a rejection hard as stone,
entangled as a spider’s web.
When the keeper lost balance
the planet leaned, continents shifted
and the perfect orbit unwound.
The age of the predator
rose with a blood red moon
and the time of loneliness began.
Off in the starry distance
light embarked on a long, long journey
with the sound of angels
traveling to the aching void.
Heard first and seen by gypsies
wandering roads without a home,
then throughout the farms and cities,
the sight and melody a gentle rain
slowly softening beleaguered hearts,
encouraging them to play once more
the long forgotten symphony of kindness.

photograph by Jenny Yang @yzjenni

There is a sparrow
on a branch of the plum tree,
just one of the songbirds
left in this city of crows.
She sings with desire
for the light that rises,
she sings for the day
and the warmth to come,
her tuft of feathers
and russet crown
full with the beauty
of invisible touch.
The sound of her music
welcomes the swell
of deep woven roots,
the lift of leaves
to the light of the sun
and here I sit
with the plum tree sparrow,
her bright voice calling
a morning gift.

photograph by James Frid

Lay down like the snow
wet and peaceful
in this wintry March storm,
your heart calm
as the white blanket
dusting early spring flowers.
The urge to upset
roils like a river,
hollows us for a harvest
we rarely understand.
Resist that threshing
with the power of silence,
let your soul come to rest
with the gravity of snow.
We’re all connected
like evergreen branches
fed from below by dark wet roots
while reaching upward
toward the light.

photograph by Tim Petersen

After a night of rain
with clouds so dense
the moon barely shown,
a gray morning
of dim light and showers;
evergreens stretch their limbs,
birds circle in the mist and quietly
the plum tree flowers.

photography by Louis MacKenzie

I see your struggle,
the weight etched
on your face
as you bear up
under the gravity
known only to you.
The world pulls
while you strive
to gain altitude,
clawing at the trap
set on the day
you were born.
Don’t bother
with confession,
just reach down
to the glint of metal
at the bottom
of your soul,
the remembrance
of who you are
clear and shining
and with that key
unfasten the lock.

Grief by David L. Miller