I’d like to tell those who let others tend to their landscapes - you’ll miss seeing and smelling the first, the happiest rose on the bush and never encounter the ground squirrel family that’s been living under those shrubs on either side of your walkway, or touch one of the aloe flower stems, thrusting yellow into sky where you could meet a hummingbird - a braver one will face off with you, challenge the meaning of your presence even drink from a flower as it’s eye

those feathered rockets called mourning doves the slow fat flight of sparrows in the blur of hummingbirds, helicopters ascend road runners that must taxi before takeoff and those whistling arrows called falcons I get that dog allergies and cat’s claws might turn a person off but aren’t we all attracted to those things that soar like excitement rise like hope or dive, then pull up before hitting the ground, like honesty?

with an ahhhhh I surrender my cold frame into the warm jungle-print cushion of the chair facing the golden morning face, arms and legs ecstatically make love to the sun, a pleasure to offset the other burdens of a soul trapped in an aging carcass I notice our spirits don’t age like our bodies do, so clearly designed for incompatibility - a marriage fated for divorce can you imagine life after this one, single again with no physical form? awareness without touching t