why

why to write words
when there are flowers
in my house,
they are present now

why spill more blood,
it cannot be pure,
carrying memory
like water

how could i give
more than me,
listening to my heart
i still know my mind,

smoke rises from prisons
burning, salt of old tears
freezes with desire,
melts with kisses,

see violence, tenderness,
cruelty,  destruction,
i am naked to me,
why undress for you

could i give pleasure
in the deep and
in the light of day,
will intimacy punish me

or could you give
a gurgling laugh
like i sometimes do
when i talk to me

when i giggle
listening to the rubbish,
thoughts whirling
through my being

could we find
a rest on top of trees,
in the wind,
watching the stars

birds and sky
like a blanket,
a shelter in nowhere,
still and slow

breathing together
and apart, could we
live and die,
trust in the morning

could we sleep, could i,
could you, will there
ever be peace
inside and between?

may i be clear and soft
and flow in lakes
or must i retire
and find a way

not up the mountain
but around, in the valleys
rich with lilies and green,
greet goats and sheep

touch stones and
bark, sing to me,
follow the echo
through  shadows

clumsiness is no sin,
age is no terror,
fear is no poison:
why ignore happiness,

i cannot answer.
but i know joy
grows with beauty
and in silence

and so does love
opening its sweetness
like a cactus in dream,
all its spines still there

and all rivers run
out of springs, all,
all find the sea,
there together, alive

and all sadness
roots in  confusion
and pain, leaves us
hiding in shells

and behind mirrors
reflecting each other
so our ugliness
cannot be seen

why to write words
when there are flowers
in my house,
they are present now

they carry no hope,
give their scent
out of  mystery ,
revelation of essence

what else is there
to feel and do,
be still, my heart,
i have no fence.