My Writing

I don't want my writing
to be a rose
you don't want to touch;
I want my words to be
the strange fragrance
lingering
upon your breath,
asking you to pause
and look to the forests,
where a wildflower
was crushed
by the falling log
from a tree
that's learning
how to die.

Fragrance

and a little bud wondered to herself -
"how can I feel my own fragrance?"
and then she was kissed open
by a prancing sunbeam,
and the wind took her
in his swiveling arms,
and she was plucked and pressed
by a wonder-filled child,
and crushed under the heels
of a lost passer by,
and she found her fragrance
as she clung to the souls
who had touched her
and her surrendered life.

Bloom

you smell
my sweet fragrance
today,
doors of thin skin
open to the wind,
turned inside out

I have no need
for capes
now,
only wings
to carry
a sweetness

born from
deep stirrings
in the ancient dust,
a quiet rush
of love
for life,
and a sun dance
upon
the altar
where
earth meets sky -

things
that remain
unseen
to forms
that seek
not the roots,
but only
the fragrance.

A Curry Leaf

like a curry leaf,
giving of itself
wholly,
with no desire
but to infuse
a flavour and fragrance
like no other,
untouched
by life and death,
use and misuse,
a quiet thanksgiving,
a celebration,
for just being...