Hi, I'm Michael.

I’m searching for a place I cannot find.
As a tip of a compass pulled Northward,
I feel it’s sensation tugging my chest
Leading to hints scattered in this life.

Sometimes I listen to the whispers in the wind,
Or read the code of the twinkling stars,
Trying to unlock their delicate mysteries.
I know they speak of the place I seek,
Telling stories of grandeur veiled in delicacy.

But as I absorb their foreign message,
I know not what is said or how to find it.
Instead, I get caught in their beautiful words,
Hypnotized into thinking little, if anything,
Except that I wish to speak like them.

I have found my own vine or fig tree,
A gnarled juniper offering enough shade,
All that I need or require.
How long has it been here,
Clinging to its place on the rock?
Is it defying the sun and the wind,
Slowly, surely resisting their oppression?
Or is it soaking them in?
Taking its time to bask in the pleasure,
Of its unique place in the world.
In this moment as it shades,
Providing a space for rest and peace,
I gaze into the expanse,
And I understand David’s words
As I have on rare occasions in life,
“Who am I that You are mindful of me?”
All I see in the beauty before me,
Are reminders of scale and time.
That I am so small and so brief.
But in this moment, 
My existence isn’t confronted,
My purpose is not put to question,
Because I have my juniper,
And I feel not afraid.

Here you are. Here I am. 
You and I with me.
When I speak, you hear my voice,
That no one else perceives.

And when you speak, I hear you too,
Though no sound you make.
Ideas ring out from within,
So clear, I can’t mistake.

No one will hear me like you do,
Nor perceive your voice like I,
Nor can I hear their silent talks,
That happen billion at a time.

Early times are the best times,
Purity of heart, purity of mind.
Focused on the ends,
Irrelevant the means
Thoughtful of each other,
Focused on our dream.

But in us shadows linger,
Clouds in clear sky eyes.
Use our righteous means,
To take for me what’s mine.
Inheritance unjustified.
Stolen lives in which to hide.

What if we wander back,
To the point where we began?
Where being all about me,
Meant being all about them.

Beloved, what is my love?
I know not from where it came
The gardener set it in the soil of my cells
As a secret chest buried in earth
What mysterious key unlocks it?
If indeed there is one.

Decades dormant, through sporadic rain
Tender shoots sprang quickly, then withered
I do not know what to hope for.
I see not what is hidden in my being.
For all I knew, love was myth.
Things are beyond me.

Until then the earth shifted,
Cracking the crust,
And a spring issued forth nearby.
A simple trickle began
Seeping through the earth
And the sleepy, finicky seed,
Came to life and rose.

Quickly its stalk stood,
A bud perched gracefully on its crown,
Of a variety yet unknown to me.
With arresting beauty,
While nimble to sprout,
Its bloom is slow, deliberate, patient.

The spring pours in its life.
Year to year petals obediently unravel,
With them comes depth, color, pattern.
So mysterious in its goodness,
Simple yet with unfathomed depth.
Strong in its delicacy.

Who knows the greatness of full bloom.
It’s maturation, a grace in itself.
A life giving revelation each day.
Never will it pass,
Never will it fade,
It will be forever.