To Flowers and Fellows: The Carnival of Human Fragility 

                   At the end of the day if fish were bears and we prayed to a pear, what difference would it
make? To whom should I pray? To the god of rot, an estuary between the living and the dead? I wish
for ecstasy to creep into my being, like a deep fungal root whose apples blossom and spread detritus to
feed the living.  

                   A cathartic upheaval may unravel your senses now, but with intimacy like weather rolling in,
I peer over the field of grass to ask, Why is it not always that the grass grows breasts to cover the
bluffs stretching their fragmented fingers to the river’s edge with a kiss? I fear that when I lose what is
new, I may lose what is now. Can the virginity of the senses be lost but once?  

                   How many times does wonder strike before the birds in oscillating flight disappear into the
sky without a thrill? Before the magic becomes mundane and time spreads thin on the breeze no
longer meandering between us and the sun? I have watched our veil disappear into kaleidoscopic
wonders of fleeting fancy. Still, ever after we crawl back into our hole covering our insecurities with
waste like the hermit crab.  

                   How often do we sit in the fractals of potential, dissolving our beauty into obscurity and
cradling our fears? I pray that these kaleidoscopic fancies find me when the time is right. The flower
lives in ignorance of its beauty. With its blossom, the world gains grace and is charmed by this
blessing that grows from the earth to take only what it needs and gives all it has.  

                   There is a certain kind of magic. It makes the morning’s sky pink. It makes autumn leaves gold.
It makes the moon swell and turn across the sky. It makes us like the moon. In love and laughter blooms
a new phase. In the radiance of a new dawn, we drift forward. Backward our thoughts often dance in the

                   There are times when we glow with warmth and perfection in our loveliest forms. There are
times when our imperfections appear in full orb. There are times when our whole mass hangs, yet we
seem to be nothing at all; but as flowers and fellows we never cease to love.  

                   Too often we pray to want and worry. But when we breathe blue air, we remember; for the
life in these bodies, we are grateful. We feel love for pink skies, and hearts that laugh in cool air even
when no one is around to share the golden day. It is the spirit of life that puts wisdom in the eyes of
the trees, spirit enough to say, it is all the same to a tree, and we strive to be like the cardamom that