This is the house of Love, which has no bound nor end.

Not Death But Love

The poplars speak, you see,
their silver-trunked sibilance stoked
by the wind, and what they have to say
will smash you with its simplicity;
its single-minded insistence on this
green truth growing in a desert,
seen even in the one golden bunch
gracing the middle of this grove
and playing at autumn, because that too
has its own perfection.

“It’s all the same thing.
We’ve been singing it forever,
since before our father’s fathers
found this place and, feeling the underground
water, sent down our roots to fathom it.
We’re still not sure how far
forever really means.”


All I need

Dreaming we’re human

Golden middle