The golden knife slices
through the the lime hills
of morning glory,
beginning a story.
The thrill of unknown
unshown
unspoken
threads sewn
between two halves
hands clasped.
Shimmering blades
of grass
green glass
in a homemade windchime
of beer bottles,
the sound of sunlight.
Winter kisses Spring
I’ve seen
a purple flower
grow in frost;
all is not lost.
