That Rhythmic Dance

I have shared my love of the skies
With my children
Just as my mother has to me.

It is a connection to the cycles,
To the phases.
A generation of past and future
All tracked by astronomers.
The regular rhythms and rotations.
The future can be predicted
With precision.

It goes unnoticed.
That beauty.
That light.
If not for my calendar
And my lunar yoga practices,
I may lose that connection.

Unaware of that rhythmic dance
Of the cosmos always happening
Hidden behind those clouds.
Beyond my human sight.
There is magic and certainty,
Mystery and always beauty.

Creative Fiction

The honeybee

The honeybee sets out each morning,
A sole worker with a craving
For the sweet nectar.
The hive can only thrive
When the collective work together.

Her day’s task is at hand
And she visits her first flower.
A rose.
Drunk on its sweet nectar,
She is seduced.
And the sweet rose is the only flower
She will visit on this day’s journey.

The rose’s branches entwine 
and climb up a pole.
Up and up.
The honeybee has found her bounty,
Her fill.

And whether conscious or drunk,
She has made her way back home
At the workday’s end.

Who knows the mystery of what 
Tomorrow’s flower may be.
Perhaps a dandelion, 
An azalea.

Tonight she is where she belongs.

I welcome and open to the mystery

The mystery of love:
How precious, rare,
Amazing and alive it feels
when it is reciprocated
and shared.

The mystery of the body:
The hormones, chemical compounds,
the tissues and organs.
Each unique and together
They manifest into the whole.

The mystery of creativity:
Where a word, thought or
prompt sparks the
Imagination and
I am writing again.

The mystery of
Modern technology:
How it is new and
novel terrain 
Yet ingrained into
Every day life.

The mystery of life:
A sudden arrival
without any effort
And the path of 
Potential that 
Each life holds.

The mystery of Earth:
How our planet came to
Be in the best position
To create and sustain life.

The mystery of watching
steam float up from
my coffee mug.
The mystery of the flame
Dancing atop my candle.
The mystery of the glow
in the darkest night.

And the mystery of my role
in it all.