Time to turn


the rocking cradle

and the hand, and new beginnings, and hope —
all these i want to turn to now, before it’s too late,
instead of treading the murky rivers of anger and evil.
(re)turn to spring, rebirth, the greening grass …

promise, renewal, nature’s cyclical churning
of the eager earth. i’ll follow whitman over eliot,
dive into silky blades of grass, beautiful hair
of the resurrected dead, and pretend i’m truly

naked, wide open to the universe’s loving
energy, atoms to atoms. allow the warming breeze
to lick me clean. it might be foolish, yes,
you might call it “crazy,” but let’s face it:

the child’s mind is a treasure. it uncovers wonder
in every emerging leaf and petal,
it’s elastic, curious, it loves unconditionally,
and it explodes into blossom with every new

connection, like april’s luscious tulip trees,
glazed and shining with rain, holding their limbs
up and out to capture god’s healing breath.

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