slow knows the way
at the edge of the orchard
where ruby and emerald
spread o’er the ground
turn when you sense
the river is speaking
your name
like a whisper
of love falling ‘round

just a bit further –
as branches are bent
by the pleasures of sunlight
folded to grace
spun into feathers
by tiny brown beaks
– weaved into shadows
of wishes
and lace

drive
til there’s nothing
but maple and pine
sweetgum and cedar
fluttering leaves
sing with the sparrow
of paradise found –
warm through the window
reminders to breathe

. . .