“I Met the Thing”

I met the thing, a solace
To the whole for but a natural rhyme and as a seedling
Leaning deftly, sifting energies and gracenotes from the sun, breathing
Freshly gathered light, a sacrifice of self to self to manifest largess;
By choice, a certitude robed in servitude, sweet volition made
Weathered, shrunk, and wedded to the greater or the lesser daylight gains.
Swelling actions often stagger in the night’s timed shadow’s pains
As simple growth, or guided by the healing spade
And shears–a graft, perhaps–something more substantial
Than what nature had bestowed and then some; fertile
Gifts of place to place and thus in time, itself, beyond the servile
Sum of all its parts; a mortal substance thus a circumstantial
Harvest of perception, there because it’s seen, a simple story
Asking nothing but an audience to a brief pedestrian glory. 

“The Recipe”

The recipe for change is simple: depth of thought
Weathered by the tethering fires of wizened time. By depth
Is meant profundity, the very weight of steps
Experienced wholly without cessation before the juggernaut
Or that sweet transformation as unction freely caught
As thoughts of separation from necessity, and in the run
Of things, events and visions–all that comes
Within the fragrance of justice. Objectives sought
Will in their natural way become the irrepressible root,
The seed made manifest in shoots and further outgrowth of the thing
Until it simply wants to be. Expect and measure nothing in the spring
But in its summer seeing argument and premise rendered moot
Before the gravitas of what has lasted after all and what has grown
From doubt to certainty, what conviction must produce if wisely sown.