As the Wheel Turns

yellow aspen (1)


And the colour wheel cranks out

its liturgy – opposites 

make the best bedfellows,

draw out the richest blooming.


So too this heart, when double

crushed, rises atmospheric

to negate the blow. So too 

this spirit, pinned to velvet

specimen case, dead carcass

to be pitied, inspected,

finds truest freedom within

its prison walls, flying high

above those who would take it

captive, coerce dignity,

boxing it in mere metal

and glass. Deepest pain reflects

truest beauty, once redeemed.


And the colour wheel cranks out

its curriculum – bluest 

skies display the purest gold.



How do you quantify the quench, until your tongue has choked on sand?

When can your heart feel the sap run,

if it hasn’t first been brittle enough to break with winter’s blast?

What will stir your soul’s song,

if it has not known silence?

How do you know you are home,

if you have never been gone ?

Where will you find Life, if you have not come back from the Dead?

Verdant only dances over bones;

Thirst is only slaked over sawdust.

Melody lives between hush and harmony;

Pulse is only remarkable

in the frame of

a ghost…