this phone text from you
came to me strangely in the night
seems launched as an impulse
sent to me as if a traveling whim
maybe dreams made of cardboard cutouts thoughts
that are finding it hard to get traction in the real
so many textures of projection here
yet deftly anchored, deeply by soul
you could be a flower coming into season
or in migratory flight to find a winter den
I have wept several times at the well of your soul
where these veiled showers fall in silence
the mountain of you behind all of this
is always inwardly genuine but guarded
snow falls and springs times have come and gone
now I see you without seasons
as a sound lighthouse to comfort others’ inner shorelines
but your voice is also like a currency amongst traders
their idea of value is in audience charmed
what listeners really want is hardly ever found
you can only deeply give them
from what recipes you are composed of that stir you
being a chef to them is mouth watering to their ear
but you need to cook from home and simply offer
their spirit is also a palate for consciousness of being
it is not roadside service or town center square
you must gypsy travel from the heart
they find you by longing it alive in them
only then to discover the acoustical comfort you offer
life is road kill and also heaven sent
both are the same, only different by perception
you have bright eyes to see for yourself
by the sounds that come out of you, channeled,
in your service to others . . .
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