Andreas Gripp, CA


A bald eagle, perched in the pine,
staring down at us below.
We are unwelcome visitors,
disturbing the bush and brush.
Bald? No, white, like the mountain tops,
a crown of kingly feathers.*



My garden blossoms by its roots,
the spray of water they absorb.
Keeping green each leaf and stem,
I rarely see them, these veins:
Below the ground, the earth
an unlit heart to which they reach.*


*from Beads on Blossoms. Andreas Gripp. Canada: Harmonia Press. March 2008.








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