why these blues come from us threadbare material soils the original colored pregnant with heavenly spirit stop running from the gift slow down to catch up with it knots mend the string quilt of kente stripped when kin split white covers of black material dense fabric that obeys its own logic shadows pieced
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From Tanka Diary
The botanical garden is just as I remember,
although it is certain that everything
has changed since my last visit.
How many hilarious questions these fuzzy
fiddleheads are inquiring of spring
will be answered as green ferns unfurl?
Walking the path, I stop to pick up
bleached bark from a tree, curled into
a scroll of ancient wisdom I am unable to read.
Even in my dreams I’m hiking
these mountain trails expecting to find a rock
that nature has shaped to remind me of a heart.