Broken glass and showers of sparks,
rain down on the asphalt,
that’s slick-black with ice.
A foot hammers pedal to metal,
unaware of tragedy on the horizon,
that’s rushing to greet it at light-speed.
Across the neon-soaked city of money and night life,
a new mother gives birth at the same instant,
that life leaves the accident victim’s eyes.
A seemingly endless circle is formed by these events,
but it is only after viewing them from afar,
that we begin to see their form.
Without the benefit of perspective,
the world would be one dimension; all flat,
no height nor depth, only a dot on a page.
Imagine what we might see,
if zoomed to the grandest scale–
stars, galaxies, a universe.
Perhaps, like neurons and synapses in the brain,
they are connected with purpose.
Perhaps then, we are but DNA– or something smaller yet,
with a role just as great.
Then again, perhaps not.
of the endless circle,
On a warm summer’s morning,
cool dew clings to grass.
Sunrise kisses the milk-white skin,
of her bare-naked breasts.
Cool pale meets hard pink.
It stiffens against the breeze.
She sits, leaned back,
arms propping her up.
to gaze at the awakened hues.
Bluish-green taints milk-white,
in lightning strike patterns,
from veins pumping crimson blood,
compelled by a red heart beneath.
Her head tilts back.
Sandy hair cascading.
The first rays of sun engulf it,
warm it with their soft yellow light,
and reveal the gentleness,
of motive in her ice-blue eyes.
To know her is to love her,
orange and daring,
but so very few do,
for the gray and the white of shyness,
make her humbling privilege gold,
atop her palette of affections.
Still she sits, until satisfied,
atop a verdant, dewy hill,
waiting for something,
no matter the color,
to move her back to life.
When it does not come,
she instead lies backward,
baring her self to blue skies,
and hoping, even dreaming,
for the Sun’s color-filled goodbye.