Finding
a broken bell,
green moss along bronze cracks—
losing our path, the ringing points
the way.
Element
Midway
between solstice
and equinox, we dance
to the rhythm of the wind in
a flame.
By the
healing stone well
our songs echo the depths
as our steps make mandalas in
the dirt.
Butterfly Cinquain
Tiny Angels
In silk
ballet slippers
they fly from basic five
positions into the saut d'ange
skyward
as arms flutter with glassy wings
through wisteria blooms
they reach star-filled
heavens.
