Gardeners of Humanity
If kindness is a kind of rest
then tenderness is medicine.
If kindness is a holding
that makes release possible,
then tenderness is an invitation
to unfurl our stories and be heard.
If kindness is a kind of rest
then tenderness is medicine.
In our tiny garden plots, we sow
seeds of worry, sorrow, and regret.
Let us be the antidote!
The sun, water, and earth.
Let us be gentle gardeners of humanity,
planting dreams, tending them
into reality, helping the sweet buds
within our neighbors’ hearts to
blossom into their full stature,
their full beauty.
If kindness is a kind of rest
then tenderness is medicine.
Let us inspire kindness.
Let us embody tenderness
as we lighten others’ burdens
by inviting
by accepting
by understanding
by forgiving
by encouraging
by loving.
If kindness is a kind of rest
then tenderness is medicine.
Let us be this medicine
for each other.
Let us be vibrant points of light
in the vast night sky.
Let us be the helpers and healers
our world needs today.
We will be called the repairers.
We will be remembered as the midwives
who welcomed a new consciousness,
a new unity.
If kindness is a kind of rest
then tenderness is medicine.
Amidst the world’s heaviness and pain,
let us be the easeful shimmer of blue,
slice of sun across water.
The earth that has catalogued our tears
will now assemble our joys.
If kindness is a kind of rest
then tenderness is medicine.
If kindness is a dahlia garden
people visit every summer,
then tenderness is a generous shade tree
under which we sit together in peace,
breaking bread with open hearts.
Under Cover of Muted Luminosity
Before being born, were we given a choice
of light by which to live? Did I not choose
the soft angles of daybreak? I am an early-riser
so I have seen my fair share of sunrises.
But I want to idle in that lambent light
before the world is fully illuminated
before my flaws ripen under the zenith’s coarse gaze
before habits take hold and the inevitable unfolds.
I want to live under cover of muted luminosity
when everything is cloaked in a soothing pastel
when delineations are less exact and more fluid
when the world is suffused with hints of beginning.
I am called to that hour of pristine possibility
before what’s already been decided comes to pass.
When I still believe that I have a say, that my fate
is malleable to my own touch.
Flights, Issue Fourteen, November 2024
Flight of the dragonfly 