Your spirit conjoins mine;
or I imagine it does.
A messenger thunders through the corridors of the cosmos
to tell me the Truth—
The laws of metaphysics allow
One message to transcribe through,
so your spirit arrives at the fore-step
of my soul
on Monday
It flies on the back of a white butterfly
who greets me
while afternooning all alone
as I sit the edge of a green pasture
The green oaths hope
with secrets etched in the
braille of
white wildflowers
peppered in the hills
green expanse.
