The perhaps grows

Not like sunflowers in an empty field
with great, golden heads turned to the light.
More like the gathering of geese
along the shore of a forgotten creek.
Noisome, honking and cackling.
So many poets have answered that call,
rejoicing in the sounds of Mother Nature.
The voices of the ones who have gone before us
echo in the canyons made by dried up streams.
Perhaps if we wait until the mixing is done
we will find friends previously unknown
coming towards us, not with arms outstretched,
but with steps of sacred recognition,
yearning to be held and to hold.

Too Fine A Light

"We suffer because we cannot spontaneously 
master the ingredients of fulfillment."
-Friedrich Nietzsche

Stepping out of the sanctuary
on any bright morning
allows me to leave
the religion of comfortableness;
no longer needing to balance
the positive elements of life
with the negative ones.
I can honestly say
I never saw the next step
when, stumbling, I began to ask,
How does something that is 
necessary need redemption?
The problem is noticing those
who suffer and cannot breathe.
To nibble at the fringe of fulfillment
portrays suffering in too fine a light.
We all miss the mark creating
fertile ground for future growth.

Over the Hills

We begin to unwind into the ground
when the earth below shivers.  Somehow
making the walk to the school,
where we never fully arrive,
makes for days of wishing
we could be taught a trick or two
instead of following the teacher around
hoping to learn something useful
for our next life.  We do not need to envision
what those days may look like; only
take one step closer to the desire
for a slightly different way 
to see the sun rising over the hills.