Retired into the late Autumn of our lives
we will write to connect the open ends
of recurring dreams, ideals started and deferred,
once visioned to offer solace, hope,
and direction to the place we inhabit,
our world, now pained, its essence blurred.
We will gather this pain; embrace
and liberate it onto the backs of butterflies
to spread golden dust not unlike
fine red Sahara sand tasked to fill
every crevice and fissure and disseminate
the soft power of enlightenment, bravery and change.
Writing upon a bed of chaos we rise
and pick our minds, plucking at brilliant
thoughts reflected on the vines of creative gems.
Sun-struck moles, we ascend from the depths,
blinking, our foreheads creased and wondersome.
With each found urge to explode and create,
we grasp the chance to sprout a shoot
and watch it blossom into something beautiful
and murmur in accord, “not bad, not bad“
We will capture and re-create memories,
many good and gone, lost and forgotten
at the moment of their creation.
We will release these into the wind
and watch billowing clouds form messages
of consolation across the hemispheres.
With warm rays of light upon our backs
to brighten up the path before us, we turn
to see the sun leapfrog across the rain,
over the mist, and above the dark.
We have squared the circle of life, and revisit
our poetic writing to cement our words in hope.