Spiritus Mundi


Turning and turning in the widening gyre

There centers the merging pyre.

 A helix entwined of loss and found.

One, the flow of a “blood dimmed tide,”

 The other, it’s garden side.


Will it be as it’s always been,

Where death rains down in silent clusters ,

Hell-burned by bunker busters,

A murdered child’s shoe in a roofless room,

A single reminder of an innocent’s doom?


Will the death wing stir again,

Forgetting  histories of power’s sin

To plunder spoils

And obliterate anew

Those blood-fused soils

Where gardens once grew?


We wait, T and I, and Bodhi Dog too,

Beneath a storm

In the flying sky,

Waiting on the ’za’ ’za’ rain,

To be reborn again

In summer’s green and heaven's blue.

Waves of water-wind bend in an angry sigh.

Millet, Cosmos, Day Lilies, and Fuchsia Phlox bow

While rabbits shoo and now—-


In the marsh, climbs monkey vine

Strangling in its upward climb,

Shaken furiously by thunder cracks

Deeper  in, 

Animals unseen  

Scurry along hidden tracks

escaping the storm's violent din.

"The ceremony of innocence" will not be drowned.

And is found,

Over near the barn where

The garden grows wild with fruited vines,

Tomatoes, squash, beans, peppers,

Garlic, potatoes and herbs divine.


A fence around the tender lot,

Flies prayer flags at every spot,

Where seeds and growth,

Make both,

food for thought.


If we have our way; it is that

Life, not death,

Is but an event horizon away.

Life begins with a garden,

The wise ones say.



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