As a man in daylight dreamtime, trying to let go of delusive teachings, and as a butterfly in nightly awakening, my heart peacefully lying on the moon, I breathe, therefore I know I am loved.
Bosom’s eardrum stroke winding rousing limbs, mellow lacking and leaking
He put the percolator on the small fire, then poured three fingers of milk in the saucepan and set it on the fire nearby. If only the kitchen was bigger, a better equipped hob wouldn’t have been a bad thing and some more small fires wouldn’t have been either; perhaps with better equipment he wouldn’t have burned the milk anymore. Truth was, anyway, if he had given up the bad habit of doing other things while cooking and had spent a bit more attention to the fires, then those that were already there would have been enough. He realized his kitchen was looking pretty much like his mother’s. How come …
Things I can give you: a smile, the gardens I love and wide open arms
Warm wholeheartedness feathers wave in cold waters white swan in black dress
You called me “husband” with a good, bright, loving voice. That sound now joins leaves
What do you feel like? What’s your heart’s colour today? And do you love me?
Walking down unseen brushing all reality we could share poetry