The Hopeful Heart

In these well used bodies
we can no longer do it;

fill the fallow spaces that were once vast
and fertile fields where the soul played God,

fill the senses with the wonder of electric storms
and bees buzzing with yellow pollen,

fill the air with deep vibrations,
the voices of violet pleasure
and whispered secrets to the Divine.

But the hopeful heart and love that dances,
laughing in these tattered spirit shells,
dreams abundantly outside the garden walls

no longer confined or taken for granted
like an unattended vine.

We lovers are eager
in the husky fruit of our imaginations,
farmers cultivating earthen joy
silently in the early morning sun

before the heat of another day
wilts the white petals of our courage.