Like the shell pink linings
that tinge dreary drab storm clouds
gathered like fists
on my soul’s horizons,
she extends, she bends,
she surrounds, abounds
and help bleeds from her
with no thought or effort
like the meadowlark’s theme.Like Polaris,
unblinking and steady
in my soul’s dark night                (river with no eyes following gravity’s destiny),
she beckons, and reckons,
she glimmers and hope shimmers
from her gentle tough wise voice
wreathed in honey-bee buzz
of comforting words.Like the Redwood,
full of unassuming majesty,
royal presence in the Black Forest
of my gendertangle
she smiles, she styles
with eyes, she scatters chaff
with health and giggle-laugh tilth
that runs and waters
where only dust of death
reigned.Magic Wise-Woman
of simple mystery!
How can you help so,
without sweat,
like…like…
bibbity-bobbity-boo!!!
And I rise from ashes
with shining eyes and limber joy…You find niche,
beautify cracks
with persistent roots,
bristle with cheery brush
to scratch the prideful
and bloom with slashing swipes
across craggy expanses
of human misery and mournings.You are Heather,
and I am
Ever Grateful.