I know a man
Whose wife has moved
Into the stars.
She lives in the constellations
And wraps herself in
Shawls of nebulae.
I know a man
Whose wife lives in
Music. Old songs,
Rock and Roll.
She is found in color,
Audacious, bold and
Bright.
Mine has taken new residence
in trees
As their Goddess.
And who would kick a woman
From her home? She is in
The waters too, in rocks,
And Sunflowers.
Men,
Our wives are
Everywhere, Everything.
Love has made it so,
The heart has built
A new pantheon of
The Goddesses of our Everyday Lives.
Gentleman,
What shall we now do
With our worshiping hearts?
Perhaps there is still
One goddess on Earth
Who does not know
She is divine,
And we are here to love.
Monthly Archives: March 2018
What Shall We Do?
Shells
She walks along the weaving foam,
waves bright under the full moon,
picking up shells,
perfect shells,
white shells,
bright shells,
leaving footprints to
fill with glistening sea.
She wants them all.
Each shell, every shell.
Then, when her hand, her arm, are full,
returns them,
one by one,
in splendid moonlit arcs,
again to the sea,
walking away with one,
only one,
the first one.
Adam Byrn Tritt 