That sweet, hot spirit
 wound up in beauty.
Oh, delicate possession,
 to tenderly touch, to stroke,
 to let loose those pent-up sighs.
You demand I separate
 the spiritual from the physical:
 that is my desire.


Not that everything is good,
 but there is good in everything.
Patience and such faith
 cherry–pick the tartest sweetness.
That’s why Aunt Sally’s pies
 go right to the heart.


From star to star,
from molten blob to smoldering ice,
so many journeys from hot to cold
to get things just right.
Ah, so many fields of foliage
 — waves of miracle —
each unfolding in their time
 to the sun,
wave overlapping waves.

When I wonder at my shoots,
or fuss at how graceful my leaves,
or worry how straight my tendrils,
I gaze around and reflect
 wherein I am a part of;
I am beautiful
 because I am a part of you.


To possess an artist’s canvas
 I make space upon my wall
 and put up something crafted
 so well and is so bold
 it never gets old.
An artist has the whole world
 upon which to hang.
 Her most prized possession
  is new canvas
     or a person
     or a new tatoo.