Little gods

Flowers catch our eye
not with equal fervor of the bee

or bird whose longevity
is here entwined,

but watch how blossoms
excite our souls

with affirmations
of vitality.

Watch how we approach heads bowed
before the little gods,

happy and exalted, losing
our ability to speak.

We grasp kinship.
We too are waves, bundled

sinews turned to the sun not
knowing for how long or why.

Strange land

Coming home from up high

where I waded motionless

in the breeze blowing down

from volcanoes over bubbling

mud, a boiling lake

where I loved life so much I

worried every hour of losing it.

Now I am back in the land of

man-made things—

moss from still ponds and

twigs still stuck on my shoe

Home where throngs frenzied 

with goals clog the streets, 

their constant motion drugging 

the air

where every place I go

too many got there first

where I sleep pinched 

without sight though the moon 

shines here too big 

and white.