Thoughts before early morning coffee

It’s 4:00 a.m. as I peer through my kitchen window

beckoning a smile from my beloved bonsais.

A blanket of snow covers the ground as I think back

to a memory re-call.

Trauma – I say, is a four – year old boy

devastated through the rupture of the hymen

of his undefiled little soul.

A privileged liberty owed to none.

Desecrated still. A disobedience to obedience.

His heart bleeds upon a scented floor of straw and hay

scattered throughout this deceptive soil.

This ground of wood that leave no tracks

nor an obliging voice of one who cares.

The ears of the caring lay quiet as stone.

The eyes of the knowing lay blind as bone.

Thoughts return to my sweet, sweet plants.

Will they survive, as I have, now in my sixty-fourth year?

Weather worn, but stronger still, bonsai and I –

 And yet, have I healed?

 Delving deeper and deeper

Into this query of soul,

Mysteries revealed through an epic old ode.

The deeper I sought, for rhyme and for prose –

Answers became as a mystical rose.

And, a co-laboring age is now upon me

Resting, peacefully, for our global community.

In a release of the machismo guides that once hunted me out –

Feminism, too, ran its course, in a dualistic hour, where I

Spent my time in prayer from the soul,

My last muse recollected, not in part, but

In Whole.