Fields of grain can flow;
may they in barren lands?
Question you might sanity
until comes a gentle hand.
***
Scars and lashes do come
as we move inside this space.
Here upon this weird sphere
the sun does burn our face.
***
What was lush turns raw;
to ash and does make barren
those moments we hold dear
the sun does not spare them.
***
Here you can and will find
contortions of deceitful minds;
at least within the acidic burn
might the sun reveal the kind.
***
Some believe in reckoning,
but why would a God care?
I believe in a simple balance
of tranquility in the air.
***
That moves fields of grain,
though fire it may spread.
Yet sometimes what must live
must at first become dead.
***
How would we know warmth
without winter’s bitter touch?
How could we know wholeness
without knowing what can crush?
