page 53

the greater bend in the pedal of a flower,
the greater enthusiasm it has to live.


:::


strung from Point Nowhere
to Point Nowhere,

i am a spider that has woven
its own memory

and walked its own whereabouts
across Amnesia.


:::


to
i cling
and
i climb
thing
and every
you are any
if i am a vine,


:::


lightning strikes from the ground up;

                         me)
          You kiss
(after


:::


Whole is what you must be
to ever be what is holy to Me;

Surrender, defender,
to this incontestable contract.


:::


approach an angry person
like the smell of rain;

you may not like the wetness,
but something about his or her

need for self-forgiveness
is pleasant;

let one forgive his or herself
before he or she forgives you


:::


not yet-not yet-not yet-not yet-not yet
-not yet-not yet-not yet-not yet
-not yet-not yet-not yet;

behold! the Trail to Success!


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the woman said to the pairs of eyes standing around her, I am quite excited for this travel. My clothes are new, my satchel is full, and my shoes are taut and unweathered. can't we accompany you? asked one of the eyes. I am afraid you cannot. You are all nomads. I, however, am an explorer. There is a difference, and I cannot say how one becomes an explorer. whilst the eyes looked around dejected and angry, a young pair of eyes without shoes, hung filthy clothes, and a deprived stomach, moved her hand quietly over her heart. seeing this action, the explorer smiled at the young eyes from the corner of her mouth, sat up, and turned to a new direction to travel. she announced confidently, Do not worry! Some of you will...and have realized... how to truly explore. ::: after magnifying the wings of a butterfly one day, a biochemist nearly lost her head at what she saw; the pigments were segmented into parts. not like feathers, not like
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page 69

there are friends who comfort us during the thunderstorm. but then there are friends who comfort us during the thunderstorm--- and shelter us from the rain and cover our ears from the noise and ask us if we are ok after the storm passes. cherish those friends who both experience the thunderstorm and wait until the sky returns to peace. a thunderstorm stands no chance against a lighting-love that strikes before  thunder welds a single decibel. ::: when we convince ourselves we cannot overcome the pains of our past, it is as if we are bees who have punctured ourselves with our own stinging-needle. lying on our backs and crushing our wings, there is a field that is not being pollinated. flowers are starving. their nectar is growing sour. in the midst of our pain, we attempt to fly into water, into a soda can, into anything to help us heal. supposedly, there was such a bee who stung herself so badly she could not even fly from the hiv
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