These are they.

When the hay is stacked in the wagon, it is done in such a way that it reaches impossibly above the base of the wagon’s height. At the top of the hay pile you can ride removed from the world. Like no one knows you’re there, you’re disappeared, out of sight. And when the work day is done, the sun treats that hay like gold as it bleeds away the light, and that hay has a smell like heaven, which you’re just below.

Ode to the politician, and to the media pomp.

A servant is forced to lay with the Master. We are the tales of the gods, for how else could we conceive of them.

Everything is teaching us. To learn is to honor.

The ruin is a natural movement. We force it. We seek it. We fear it. And we deny it.

Abuse is weakness. In it power is remembered, found, and born.

Tie the spirit to the fairground and charge all you can for a glimpse. Someone will steal the glimpse, and set the spirit free.

The desert is like an ocean we each harbor internally. We can escape to it. Jesus went to the desert. This woman crosses it with an ocean inside of her.

The hammer and the nail return. They were in poem 29 too. This poem is of Sodom and Gomorrah. Acceptance is as contextual as the time in which a story is told.

The flowers have so much to teach us.

These are the colors.

If the trees could speak they would know this story.

The label is a product of the question. This man loves a woman. She, in turn, loves him. Where are you from? Can we begin with things like courage, forgiveness, fear, acceptance, joy …

An immigrant comes to this land.

We are born. Many times - are we born again.

Other poems have led us here. The food is good. And he brings her love from so many places. The bed sheets stretch out like a desert. Do we bloom?

Our love is like the seasons. The seasons are lovers of legend. Follow step.

We worship the storyteller, and the stranger is god.