It’s 4:00 a.m. as I peer through my kitchen window
beckoning a smile from my beloved bonsais.
A blanket of snow covers the ground as I think back
to a memory re-call.
Trauma – I say, is a four – year old boy
devastated through the rupture of the hymen
of his undefiled little soul.
A privileged liberty owed to none.
Desecrated still. A disobedience to obedience.
His heart bleeds upon a scented floor of straw and hay
scattered throughout this deceptive soil.
This ground of wood that leave no tracks
nor an obliging voice of one who cares.
The ears of the caring lay quiet as stone.
The eyes of the knowing lay blind as bone.
Thoughts return to my sweet, sweet plants.
Will they survive, as I have, now in my sixty-fourth year?
Weather worn, but stronger still, bonsai and I –
And yet, have I healed?
Delving deeper and deeper
Into this query of soul,
Mysteries revealed through an epic old ode.
The deeper I sought, for rhyme and for prose –
Answers became as a mystical rose.
And, a co-laboring age is now upon me
Resting, peacefully, for our global community.
In a release of the machismo guides that once hunted me out –
Feminism, too, ran its course, in a dualistic hour, where I
Spent my time in prayer from the soul,
My last muse recollected, not in part, but