Portraits of my face
everywhere I look a mirror
of who I seem to be:
Cauldrons bubble with children’s blood
born from holy tissue: cells twist, heart beats,
creation of a mystery made so casually.
I meet you at the corner of the street
we turn and talk, eyes light
something unimaginable caught between.
Creation hovers in quiet rivers
breathes in the beat of thrushes song
lingers in the scent of roses.