There is a peace at sunrise A feeling that anything is possible. There was always a reason or an excuse In every potential relationship, But at its core was a shared sunrise and A conversation that didn’t happen. I went to our spot from time to time, To see the sunrise, not for her. At least, that’s what I told myself. I had given up without realizing I was hoping. Hoping to see her again. Hoping to feel what I felt that day. Hoping she would be there. And then it happened. It was once again summer, It was sunrise, But this time she was there. Seeing her again, I knew I wouldn’t let the opportunity slip from my grasp, Not a second time. When the sun had completed its part in our play, This time, however, I stood up as well. Lifetimes are only lifetimes When viewed in reverse. A cup of coffee became a dinner date. A dinner date became a commitment. A commitment became a proposal, And a proposal became forever.

Dried leaves Even dry leaves have their own fate, Sometimes there are decorations of a branch. Becomes heady with the wind, So sometimes there are mats under the feet. Sometimes breathes with a rustle, Sometimes there is attachment to dead soil. Sometimes scream like a creak, Sometimes there are textures of several voices. Even when dry leaves dissolve in the ground, They are the building blocks for a new creation. They hide many secrets with them, Some days there is a complete text.

In spring it sprouts its tender, green shoots With a gardener’s soft, whispering touch In summer it flourishes: Strong, brown branches clothed in a silk green garment It takes a few years of careful tending to mature I remember playing hide-and-seek; climbing up thin branches, or crouching in the undergrowth. I think I was too young to understand back then: I thought of time as a steadily growing tree that I hadn’t yet started climbing. Once, you saw my head peeking out from the apple tree. I'd like a tree to mark the spot Where I am laid to rest For that would be the epitaph, That I would like the best. You said that soon, I’d always be looking down at you like that; that time passed too quickly. I think I grew younger You told me once that growing up was like walking up a downwards escalator. My heart is glad, my heart is high with sudden ecstasy! Grow thou and flourish well, Ever the story tell of this glad day; I have given back, before I die, Some thanks for my lovely apple tree

Brightest flowers of early spring The scent of a daffodil Smell pure and sweet These lovely flowers always bring Sunshine that never will Earthy, moist, steamy, and rare, like tropical flowers perfuming the air. I can smell across the street, That delicate scent carried on the breeze, Coming from a daffodil, seeking release. Be dimmed by veil of cloud Pop out of the ground in spring Primroses so sweet and colorful is a flower warm weather brings Green stems that stab with loveliness, Rich petal-cups to hold the wine of spring to lips Those cling like bees about their gold! Each leaf, each bloom, each blade of grass fill our world with color but the Daffodils with their yellow coats bring us springtime like no other Oh let them live as nature meant, I smell that scent so sublime. The smell of a daffodil all over my face, The sweet scent of a daffodil, will have me crazed. There is nothing better than the scent of daffodil

I will tell you a story in all its glory explaining the Creating much more than the eye can see It’s a story about a vibrant flower So beautiful it needs to be to attract the buzzing honey bees The story goes something like this So you can see the flowers multiply through the years Make two Four and many more Its a big bright pink one Circular in shape Bold Beautiful Its the one Open, with so many soft small petals Glistening with the rain drops Shining in the sun Sparkling with beauty from within Makes the bee meander to thee Flowers will always Wilt and wither All that has been will turn to dust Fire will too soon be just Embers And all that’s new will one day rust But sweet decay is not disaster it’s just a way to make some room for is there anything as beautiful as watching something brand new bloom?

Divine Lord bless me with your love, Divine Lord bless me so that I may lie at your feet, Thou divine feet emits the glow of eternal joy Divine Lord be my guide. Divine Lord forgive my ignorance, Divine Lord extend your blessings so that I may bathe in your glorious light. Divine Lord let me melt into the beauty, Divine Lord thou are father and mother to me, Like a naughty child please forgive my sins and my failings. Lead me to your wisdom, Let me bathe in your purity, Offer my devotion to you in this lifetime and others to come. O Lord let me lie at your feet with devotion, Bless me as your devotee evermore. oh my Lord thou can heal my aching heart, oh Lord let me lie at your feet for eternity.

It didn’t rain all summer. Instead of water, my father used prayer for his garden. Despite his friends’ laughter, he planted spinach and lettuce, countless rows of cucumbers in beds lined up meticulously ignoring old people’s warnings about the drought. Every afternoon, he pushed his hat back, wiped off his sweat, and looked up at the empty sky, the sun scorching the acacia trees shriveling in the heat. In July, the ground looked like cement. Like the ruins of a Roman thermal bath, it kept the vestiges of a lost order, traces of streams long gone. He yelled at me to step back from the impeccable architecture of climbing green beans, the trellis for tomatoes, although there was nothing to be seen, no seedlings, no tendrils, not even weeds, just parched, bare ground— as if I were disturbing the hidden sleep of seeds. Poetry has an important connection between heart, soul and mind. But the connection that interests me most is emotion itself. I try to write carefully, constructed description and consideration, unfolding as measurably and quietly described. poetry make us feel alive in a way that nothing else can. Poems which express loving, healing and touching feelings which we all can relate to.

It didn’t rain all summer. Instead of water, my father used prayer for his garden. Despite his friends’ laughter, he planted spinach and lettuce, countless rows of cucumbers in beds lined up meticulously ignoring old people’s warnings about the drought. Every afternoon, he pushed his hat back, wiped off his sweat, and looked up at the empty sky, the sun scorching the acacia trees shriveling in the heat. In July, the ground looked like cement. Like the ruins of a Roman thermal bath, it kept the vestiges of a lost order, traces of streams long gone. He yelled at me to step back from the impeccable architecture of climbing green beans, the trellis for tomatoes, although there was nothing to be seen, no seedlings, no tendrils, not even weeds, just parched, bare ground— as if I were disturbing the hidden sleep of seeds.