Jesus wrote in the sand.
I write in red notebooks. . .
After grace and after rain,
even the most sacred and profane
words sprout like mushrooms
in the grasslands of the soul.
And in the mind, as in circular
white rooms of lighthouses near
the ocean on April afternoons,
bluebells and bridal wreath,
and Easter lilies with glittery
green leaves, live as music lives
and remain like scattered sunlight
rediscovered after rain.