Crow Cry Moonrise

author’s note:

One night as a child, I saw the moon following our pickup truck.

Then I decided: probably follows everyone around.


CROW CRY MOONRISE

Here’s a fable I wrote recently
for you to enjoy and ponder:

The cry of a crow came
at the moment the tip
of a gold moon appeared
across the desert on the eastern horizon.

So the moon believed
it’d caused the bird to cry.
And the bird was sure
it’d caused the moon to rise.

Obviously in the poem
the crow and the moon are both fools.
But maybe the bigger fool
is the one who wrote them both into being—

reading those verses again, I suddenly saw:

I did not understand
the motivations of my own characters—
why did that bird cry?
And why does the moon
still want to rise
when to rise means
you’ll hear all the cries?

After careful analysis, I realized:
the crow had called out because
I’d squelched that cry in my heart.

And the Harvest Moon rose
because one day I hope to rise
and shine a bit of light
to help those who travel through
long nights of grievous confusion.

Okay
but what about the writer?—
maybe he was trying to impress you—
using humor to state a universal truth.

Well yes, but
after careful analysis, I now realize:
I hid my pain and my hope
under that joke.

But though I feel embarrassed now
I’ve decided to publish those lines anyway
because:

Maybe when they hear that crow
some will begin to feel
the cry they’ve stifled in their depths.
And maybe some will imagine
that moon in full bloom
and then begin to feel
their own gold moon struggling to rise.

And if they don’t
perhaps they’ll at least enjoy the jest.

Listening to Silence: poetry ebook
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© 2026, Michael R. Patton

The Symbolic Tree

author’s note:

Inspired by a photo of the 900-year old Camel Thorn trees at Namib-Naukluft National Park in Namibia.


THE SYMBOLIC TREE

The stark beauty of that desert plain
was enhanced by the presence
of a single tree.
Dead for hundreds of years
but well-preserved by the dry conditions
and the chemical composition
of those grains of sand.

Like a hand
that tree reached up from the golden land—
its bare black branches
beseeched the sky perpetually.

But finally
atmospheric forces won
when a record sandstorm
shattered that skeleton
with one big blow
and all the pieces
flew away on the whirling wind.

With the loss
that stretch of desert no longer matched
the photo the tourist bureau
had posted on the web.
Without that dramatic symbol
the plain now seemed so empty.

Realizing the need for a replacement
the government then planted
a monument on that very spot—
the black steel mirrored the tree in every detail:
same height, same girth, same desperate gesture.

Some statues die from neglect once erected.
But this one lives on.
Tourists come from all over the world
to visit that desert park.
And a recent study shows:
ninety percent take photos
of themselves beside
that symbolic tree.

Their grins can seem so silly
juxtaposed
against those naked steel branches.
But much goes on beneath a clown face.

I believe
people respond to that monument
because its severity expresses a secret truth.
A deep desire I again feel
now, as I revisit that picture.

Once again
I’m spurred to work
to cure the pain
of that blessed yearning.

How Can I Live In This World?: poetry book
dream steps blog
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© 2026, Michael R. Patton

Occasionally I Become an Island

author’s note:

So did I actually endure such a night?

Yes—many times in my life.  In many different places.


OCCASIONALLY I BECOME AN ISLAND

I’d heard
at low tide a narrow land bridge
would appear above the waves.

You could then walk
from the shoreline
to that little island of rock—
that ragged gray pyramid
bare beneath the open sky.

However, you could only stay an hour
—two at the most—
before the waters covered the bridge again.

But alone in the purity of that fresh world
I felt my spirit elevate
and so I decided to ignore the time
and continued stepping from stone to stone
until I’d reached the plateau on top.

By then, the waves had swallowed
the narrow passage below.

But I merely laughed and danced like a goat.
Ecstatic as I watched the sun descend.

Later, as I hunkered and shivered
under the cold stars of evening
I blessed my tuna sandwich for its sacrifice
and thanked the scrawny trees
for slaking my thirst
with the dew they gathered on their small leaves.

I also said “thanks”
to the dark gray islands of cloud sliding above.
Yes, I thanked them
because they told me again and again and again:
remember your higher aspiration.

At the same time, I thanked the waves
for telling me again and again and again:
this life is deeper than you can imagine.
Yes, I thanked them
because I then tried to imagine.

In that way, I expanded
until morning came
and the bay lowered again.

Since then
I’ve endured more teeth-chattering nights
on that pyramid of rock.
I’ve even created my own little alcove
near the summit.

And when friends ask
Are you trying to punish yourself?
I answer:
I don’t go there
for enjoyment—
I go there for joy.

What I Learned While Alone: poetry book
dream steps blog
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

The Sun in My Future

author’s note:

I believe our greatest accomplishments often go unnoticed.  We don't even see them ourselves.


THE SUN IN MY FUTURE

A week ago, I woke with this image
in the darkness of my aching head:

A tear
dangling from the tip
of an eyelash.
The drop beamed like a small sun.

I’d seen that teardrop before—
years ago
so I already understood the message:

By releasing grief
I will cleanse my eye
and then see the world in light.

But apparently that clarity
is still far away—
as before, I saw the drop
through the lens of a telescope.

Naturally, I felt disappointed
and began to wonder
if I’d ever reach that sunny place.

So to strengthen my resolve
I wrote this poem—
knowing
I’d rewrite it many times
and each time
I would see that sundrop.
And as a result
the image would anchor in my mind.

So maybe now
I won’t slip
and forget
my deep desire
as I often have in the past.
No, I won’t lapse
and slack in the task
of clearing those clouds from my eye.

mythsteps · the sun in my future

The Truth of the Dream: poetry book
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

The Crystal Goddess

author’s note:

Another flawed vessel.


THE CRYSTAL GODDESS

I wanted to create a crystal goddess.
I would

transform a glob of molten glass
into a vessel so glorious
a mere glance would cast a spell
over the innocent pilgrim
and awaken deep aspirational desires
in their psyche.

Then maybe they would again sense
the divine flame
held within their meat and bones.

But my labor
though intense and loving
produced instead
the abomination of a blob body
with a knob for a head
and little round pegs
for breasts and legs.

Those tiny air bubbles
permanently trapped
in the bloated belly
reminded me of gas.

No goddess would have gas!

But though embarrassed
I could not discard my failure
because it had been born
from a wish to give more.

So I put the inflated figurine
on my backroom windowsill
for only me to see.

Then forgot about it
until the power outage in December.

As I sat in the dark
I thought I heard a mousetrap snap shut
so I fumbled my way to the back
by the light of a Christmas candle.

Then stopped still—

what I saw was so real
it seemed unreal:

the black oil of midnight
had filled the vessel of the crystal woman
and there, within her bosom
the reflection of my candle flame shone—
a suspended drop of liquid gold.

Enchanted I was—entranced

until the overhead bulb
abruptly brightened the room
a few minutes later

or maybe I’d stood there an hour.

Now, whenever my night becomes dim
I visit the goddess by candlelight
to remind myself of the divine flame
held within the crystal glass
of our meat and bones.

mythsteps · crystal goddess

Myth Steps: poetry book
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© 2025, Michael R. Patton

The Better Bell

author’s note:

In memory of my father.  I hope he’s now hearing his better bell.


THE BETTER BELL

When I saw
that long red-gold braid of hair
dangling down the tower wall
I imagined a lovely lass
at the other end above.

But when I shouted up at her
she did not respond.

So I decided to climb
a few feet up
and give that tail of hair
a little tug—
maybe she’d wake up.

But oh, what a chore—
trying to hook my fingertips
and toes
into the spaces between the stones.

Then
when I finally came within reach of it
the tail jumped up a bit
and so I missed
and nearly slipped and fell.

Though my better sense then said “no”
I hoisted myself a few feet more.

But as soon as I got within reach again
again the rope jumped.

Continuing in this way
I struggled up the tower wall—
whenever I came close to the braid
it again mocked my wish
and shot up a few more notches.
Apparently the damsel meant to tantalize me—
she’d make me earn her love.

Halfway up
I knew I should stop
but now
I wanted what I wanted
simply because I’d failed to get it.

I’d been told as a child:
success is always within reach
as long as you keep trying.
And now I didn’t want to unbelieve
a belief I’d always found so encouraging.

So even though my hands began
to ache and bleed
I kept following that cord
until it slipped over the gray stone ledge
to the other side of the wall.

Then with relief
I hoisted my tired body
over to the other side
and landed a patio of slab rock.

In the center I saw
a massive bell
set in a heavy wooden frame.
Red sunset sunlight shimmered
across the golden brass.

But where was my ravishing beauty?

At first, I felt so disappointed
when I did not find her
at the end of the braid—
apparently, my heroic efforts
would go unrewarded.

But at least when I reached
the rope now waited for me

and when I pulled it tight
the pulley turned
and that big bell awoke—
a power sound boomed out—
the vibration tremored my body.

And when I let the rope go slack
again the heavy clapper landed on thick metal.
Again my frame rang.
Again

great waves of sound
spread over—all over—
the broad countryside below

to bustle the red-gold trees on the hills

and rustle sun-tipped wheat
on fields ready for harvest

while riffling the straw
on humble thatch-roof cottages.

To any frustrated wall-climber
who’s read this far
I offer this moral to my story
hoping I may ease their pain
with a higher truth:

though we pursue a foolish dream
and fail in our pursuit…

through our courageous efforts
we may pull ourselves up
and eventually arrive at a bell much better
than the one we thought we wanted
when we first started to climb.

mythsteps · the better bell

33 1/3 New Fables & Myths
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

The Higher Mountain

author’s note:

I say: we’re all taking the same walk.


THE HIGHER MOUNTAIN

When I first glimpsed
that mountain peak
through the clouds
I instantly experienced
an expansion of spirit—

suddenly I saw the purpose
of this grinding walk
up a long incline.

And so
I started to push harder—
I begin to step with intent.

Even so
easy to forget my higher goal
because this life asks me to tend to
so many details.

But when I remember
to look up from my work
I’ll see the peak through the trees and fog
and again feel that lift.

However
all these years later
that white spire still seems so distant.

But I dare not sit on my aspiration—
my spirit would deflate.

So when the naysayer in my head says
maybe you’re creating an illusion—
clinging to a delusion
I answer:

consider this benefit:
these difficult steps I take
not only improve my state
but also the state
of the whole human race
(a little bit, at least).

Yes, my steps help us
as we struggle, struggle
to take a massive step up.

mythsteps · The Higher Mountain

Searching for my best beliefs: poetry book
dream steps blog
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

Any Wise Snail Will Tell You

author’s note:

Oh snail
climb Mount Fuji,
but slowly, slowly!
          — Issa (trans. R. H. Blyth)


ANY WISE SNAIL WILL TELL YOU

Years ago, I was told:
if I could get past
certain obstacles in my path
I would arrive at a place of peace.

So of course I tried to hurry
but by rushing, often stumbled—
and sometimes tumbled
and fell on my knees.

Finally I realized
what any wise snail will tell you:

real progress occurs at a crawl.

But oh—
this slow pace can fatigue the spirit!

Fortunately, I’ve learned
the dangers of frustration.
So before I start to act out
I’ll force myself to stop and sit
down under a tree—
sit

until I again sense
the mysterious music hidden within
the menagerie
of creature, place, and thing
which is this planet

and then
if I can deepen my listening
I'll find my own strange harmony within.

But I can’t keep
what I haven’t yet earned—

at present
I can only stay in that heaven
for a few moments.

However afterwards
I don’t slump with the loss
no
I feel energized—ready
to continue this incredible crawl—

hoping one day to finally clear
all the trash, all the walls
that keep me from rooting down
in that glorious place of peace—

maybe then I can become
one of those human trees
that provide sheltering shade
for tired snails who need
to pause the crawl
and once again feel that harmony
they hold deep within their shells.

mythsteps · Any Wise Snail Will Tell You

Glorious Tedious Transformation: poetry book
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

Fable of the Woman Who Saved a Wounded Bird

author’s note:

Physician, heal thyself.
        -- Luke 4:23


FABLE OF THE WOMAN WHO SAVED A WOUNDED BIRD

Years ago, a young girl
tried and failed
to save a dying bird chick.

A sincere effort.
But what she didn’t know was:
she saw herself in that bird.

Later
she decided to help save human beings
by becoming a nurse.

A sincere aspiration.
But what she didn’t know was:
in so many faces
she saw that dying bird chick.

Later
after witnessing so much death
she decided to help save human beings
by ascending to the pulpit.

A sincere aspiration.
But what she didn’t know was:
she now hoped to save
that dying bird chick
by saving its soul.

Over the years, she received much praise
for her work as a preacher and nurse.
Nonetheless
she still felt a vague malaise.

Finally, in desperation
she asked her mirror
what the problem was

and then
in the reflection looking back
she saw that dying bird chick.

From that point on
she became her own patient.
From that point on
she became her own flock.

Later, she returned
to the twin tasks of tending
to the bodies and spirits
of wounded human beings.

But now her aspirational efforts
produce even better results

and though she doesn’t say
she knows the reason why:

People who want to open
but don’t trust
may open
when they experience
a server who lives in peace—

someone who has saved
her own bird chick.

mythsteps · Fable of the Woman Who Saved a Wounded Bird

Poet, Heal Thyself: poetry book
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© 2024, Michael R. Patton

Prometheus, Revisited

author’s note:

Maybe the Greek gods were real after all.  That would explain the capriciousness of life.


PROMETHEUS, REVISITED

The myth of Prometheus
would seem to be a warning
to those who’d try to bring fire
down from the mountaintop.

As they did with him
the gods might wrap you in chains
and send an eagle down to devour
your liver every damn day.

Nonetheless I accepted the risk—
hoping to satisfy my creative impulse
(and my ego as well, of course).

But with that choice
I put myself in the chains
of ambition

then later refused
to set myself loose
when my sparks only made
small flames
that dwindled and died.

Though my ego died a bit
with each pathetic death
I actually pulled the chains tighter
because

those flickering promises
kept my aspiration burning

and by then I’d realized:
if I let that mad dream die
life would lack meaning
and so
my life would lack life.

Maybe I stoke my inner fire
with delusion
but hey—
sometimes in that way
fools make blazes
bright enough
to rouse the jealousy
of those who try to play god.

40 New Fables
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© 2023, Michael R. Patton

Small Gods of the Mountain

author’s note:

Can I get a witness!


SMALL GODS OF THE MOUNTAIN

The old ones told us children:

gods lived on the mountain outside town
but we couldn’t see them
because the clouds shrouding the peak
hid them from sight.

However
if we really tried
we could sense their presence
despite the distance--
the old ones told us.

But though I made the effort
I could not feel
any higher spirits lurking
behind the clouds
of my paltry mundane life.

Finally, one morning
I decided I must defy the taboo
and set out to climb that mountain--
hoping to find those gods
and receive a blessing
that would fill my empty heart.

But far from the top
I got lost in the wet fog--
rasping for air
I sat down in defeat.

Only then did I notice the wildflowers--
softly small
yet they thrived
in that gray rock.
In the bone-chill.
I witnessed their strong spirit--

and when we see spirit
don’t we then see god?

Now
when I feel the need
for the healing blessing of beauty
I’ll often steal away to visit
those gods of many colors
that ignite the mountainside.

finding Beauty: poetry book
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© 2023, Michael R. Patton

Fig Tree Communion

author’s note:

I don’t find my roots by looking back at ancestors I never knew.


FIG TREE COMMUNION

I take this fig onto my tongue
and as I savor its richness
I sense the spirit of the mother tree
spreading through my blood--

for a few blessed moments
I can feel her steady strength.

Then as the feeling fades
I begin to wonder:

can I ever be so strong?--can I

bend in the storm wind?--can I
keep my roots anchored down?

I doubt I can
but I’m inspired to try
when I see the power
of so many wise survivors
who now feed the world
with all those figs they’ve grown.

Glorious Tedious Transformation: poetry book
dream steps blog
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© 2023, Michael R. Patton

The Fable of the Delusional Bird

author’s note:

While doing research for this poem, I discovered that use of the word “delusional” has sharply increased in recent years.

Just thought I’d throw that out there.


THE FABLE OF THE DELUSIONAL BIRD

Why was the bird so madly ambitious?

We don’t know we only know
from a young age, the bird
wanted to create a song
that would endure after its death:

a song to be sung
down through the generations--
the beat would become part
of the heartbeat of this planet.

Though at first its tune
sounded quite puny
the little bird sang on

believing its sincerity

would one day transform the ditty
into a symphony worthy
of sophisticated orchestras.

A silly notion, yes
but one that encouraged the bird
to keep singing

through all those years
when its song of life
only had enough life
to shake the leaves.

The bird kept singing
even as its frustration
grew from a mild irritation
into a torment
and then a torture.

The bird continued then because
it could hear how that heartrending pain
actually helped to strengthen the song

and could feel how
its voice now sounded all the way down
through the trunk to the roots of the tree.

This development continues to develop
and so, the bird still believes
its song will eventually
deliver listeners into ecstasy.

If no wandering composer
offers to score the notes
the bird plans to fly from its tree
when the song finally feels
ripe to the point of bursting

then that avian will sow the seeds
of its complex melodies
all over the world
so that choirs everywhere can chorus
the wondrous composition.

A grand ambition, but
that bird is obviously suffering
from a delusion.
I shudder to imagine
what might happen
to the poor creature
if it ever wakes up to reality.

But to be honest,
behind my pity
there lurks a bit of envy.

40 New Fables
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

Beautiful Nest

author’s note:

I think we can learn a lot by listening to birds.


BEAUTIFUL NEST

Watching the bird weave
shredded plastic
through the twigs and grass
of its nest
I again began to believe
I could realize my aspirations.

What can you do
in a junk culture that seems to want
only more junk?

Well, the bird says:
a few flashy threads
won’t ruin the beauty
of work made with
natural earth materials.

33 1/3 New Fables & Myth: ebook
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

Mysterious Groundhog Life

author's mote:

Every day should be Groundhog Day.


MYSTERIOUS GROUNDHOG LIFE

When I saw the groundhog
waddling along--
grubbing just to survive--
I saw myself
and suddenly my dream
of being an eagle in high flight
felt like a lie:

a fantasy I use
to distract myself
from the plain truth
of my groundhog life

with its daily routine of mundane chores
made worse by incessant small frustrations.

But then
as I continued to watch
that humble creature work
I began to marvel
at the force in its frame--
does the fodder
of wildgrass and grubs
provide all that energy?--

maybe the body also draws
from some higher source.

Whatever the case may be
in that moment, I witnessed

the mystery of life
in a life quite common

and felt again
the mystery of my own life--
the mystery of our groundhog life.

My wonder then lifted me
high above this flat ground.

So maybe the sages were right
when they told us:
you must first embrace
this lowly earth
before you can realize
your dream of flight.

40 New Fables: ebook
myth steps blog © 2020, Michael R. Patton

When She Looks Down

author’s note:

I use the third-person pronoun in this poem because I’ve never actually considered returning…

But I can understand why someone would.


WHEN SHE LOOKS DOWN

Long ago, she began to pull a plow
up this steep slope
after being told she’d find
a terrace somewhere in the upper reaches.
There, she could plant her crops
close to the sun
and reap great abundance--
she could earn a paradise.

But sometimes on this trek
she stops to rest
and then looks down
at her old life far below
on that gentle level ground--

from a distance
its way seems so much easier.

She then begins to question
her decision--

she’ll think:
maybe I won’t gain a paradise
if I continue to climb
but lose one--
down below I could chat and drink
and feed and sleep
in the pleasant shade of the cliffside--
I could fade to my end quite contentedly.

But if I returned
wouldn’t I always wonder

what I might’ve discovered
above those mountain clouds?

To abandon my work would be
to abandon an aspiration
that has given my life meaning.

All my hard-earned progress lost
in the dizzy whim of a moment!

In regret, I might feel
even weaker than I feel
when I’m climbing.
Even smaller.  Totally insignificant.

At this point in her thought process
she’ll tell herself:
okay, I won’t return today
though I could
and indeed I might--
tomorrow.

Then she’ll stand
and begin to climb again--
having completed yet another round
of a mind game she uses
to move her feet
when she feels so fatigued--
so frustrated
and lower instinct
threatens to triumph
over higher.

Glorious Tedious Transformation: poetry ebook
Myth Steps blog
© 2021, Michael R. Patton

Your Spirit Spoke

Dance dance dance dance dance dance yeah!
                   -- The Beach Boys


YOUR SPIRIT SPOKE

Your spirit spoke to me last night
after I closed my eyes
and opened my mind--
your spirit told me

about your secret strings--
invisible wires that pull you
up and down and around--
this way and that--
according to plan.

Your spirit told me:
you don’t remember, but
you agreed to this plan in advance--
even those pulls that place you
in the path of a lightening bolt
are part of the agreement.

Yes--
your flipping and flapping and flopping
have all been choreographed

for a modern dance
expressing a courageous struggle
to answer life's shocking demands

performed to a music
that may sound jazzy
but the truth is
those notes are set on the bars of a score:

the bars not a prison--merely restraint:
the restraint experienced by all spirits
moving through time and space--

the restraint of human learning.

Yes, that’s what your spirit said
to me last night
as we watched you move
from a corner in your sunlit room

and when I awoke
in a light that reminded me of your sun
I decided to share the dream
because your spirit also said
you’ve refused to hear
its positive message--

that is:
how you work so hard to build strength
following a design quite brilliant--

no, you don’t see the beauty
of your fierce dance

as I do now
after listening to your spirit.

But despite its wisdom
I still can’t quite accept
what your spirit said
about my stumbles and slips--
your spirit claims
I can find the shine of my own elegance
in the luminous mirror of your dance steps.

© 2020, Michael R. Patton
the truth of the dream: poetry ebook

a taste of green sky

author’s note:

To all the giraffes out there.

I think you know who you are.


A TASTE OF GREEN SKY

As I struggled
up the tree trunk--
  seeking without knowing
  what I sought--

a giraffe lowered its neck
and let me ride
all the way
to the leaves at the top

so I could feed as it fed

on that green nectar:
the dark mineral of earth
combined with the lightness of sky.
I grew giddy and dizzy with delight
and surely would have fallen

if the giraffe had not bent back down.

My host then shook me free and moved on.

At the time, I thought: quite rude!

But now as I grapple
with these thorny branches
I thank the giraffe
for granting me that taste

so that I might realize
what I truly sought
then fight my way upward--
accepting the cost.

© 2020, Michael R. Patton
what I learned while alone: poetry ebook

A Better Fool

author's note:

Just once, I would've liked to have seen Wile E. Coyote ring Road Runner's neck.


A BETTER FOOL

As a child, I admired
the heroic defeat--

for instance:

the weary warrior rising to defend
poor children cowering in shadow corners--
she struggles--relentless--
though she knows her sacrifice
will not end the grief

or
the fallen explorer--
as he slowly fades, he raises his arms
toward the white sparkling peak--
just out of reach.

Such stories told me:
you need not win
in order to ascend to glory--
by remaining strong in abject loss
you can earn a place
in the hall of the brave.

Obsession
could actually lift me to grace.

But wait--
what about those cartoons
of the desert coyote obsessively pursuing
that empty-headed ground-dwelling bird?--

no grandeur when
the bomb explodes in his hand--
toasting his foolish head
to a burnt-black crisp

or when
the chase leads him off a cliff--
his bewildered eyes looking at us
for a mid-air moment of stillness--

saying:
"oh no!--but oh well--
 another hard landing."

The folly of the coyote
woke me to this risk:

by fighting ever onward
despite repeated failure
I could become rabidly absurd

but no--not if I went for bigger game:

if I elevated my goals
I might still be a fool
but I wouldn't be a silly fool--

by always reaching higher
I'd feel fulfilled even if I failed--

even if I suffered a million losses
I would not lose.

© 2019, Michael R. Patton
40 New Fables: ebook

The Diamond Kite

author’s note:

This hour I tell things in confidence,
I might not tell everybody but I will tell you.
            -- Walt Whitman


THE DIAMOND KITE

Yesterday, when I saw the kite
I saw myself

sleeping in a park clearing
--no tail, no string--
just thin orange paper breathing
in a flimsy wooden frame

until woken abruptly by a gust--
twirled straight up--
up above the maple trees

then held--suspended:
burning golden in the sun
for an operatic moment.

But soon the magic went "poof"
and the kite spiraled down
to land softly on the lawn--

the diamond eagle: a ground bird
once again.

I know how it feels

to be suddenly lifted
by some invisible hand--
held aloft

only to be set down
in the next breath.

A short vacation
yet long enough
for me to know the wonder
of being a diamond kite

and so, ever since
I've wanted that height
as a permanent residence

and have worked to build
string and tail.

But after so many years
and so much effort, I fear
my kite dream may only be
a pipe dream.

Nevertheless...

when I saw that kite aloft
I could not deny my desire
to lift myself up
to my diamond height.

© 2018, Michael R. Patton
what I learned while alone: poetry ebook