Buddhism

Wreathed in the flames

The tear drops spiral into one
Verily, it is a craving to go on through the mind-sweep
The wish, to wish you out of the question,
And let it be

Round and round these glowing branches grows out of the tangles
And rebinds at its own accord

All along what my heart has been saying

This wreath of flames is majestic and wild
Fuses the sunder
Burns away into, magenta afterglow
That will touch your face
And doubtlessly will keep you in grace, of all those tomorrows

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Relationship

Ida Reds, Holding Love

The seasonal sun fire kisses,
To ablaze sweet Ida skins.
Enchant my eyes to sense,
The difference of my life’s fabrication.
Charming poisons
Like cavities that fed on my mind.
All the pretending of love.
That never nurtured.
My blood to flow,
To make my skin a blushing rose.
Now I see I’m too old to huff impatiently. I’m left to asking how do I orchestrate an orchard?
I simply cannot.
For if I control it,
I’ll cultivate only a bitter lust.
A love to grow as naturally as
Ida Reds, must be surrender in trust.
To the graceful hands of nature.
That one day could embrace me tightly
In tangible warmth,
And fray the cold negligence.

Poem & Photograph(Saturday’s stroll thru apple orchard): Naomi Ruth S. W.

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