Done with counting our words,

done with sounding syllables —

it all resonates inside,

surprising the mind.

. . . . .

spb | 13 apr 2017


Cinnamon Sparkles

Cinnamon may hide in the cupboard
or sit in its own special container —
on the sideboard with salt and pepper.

My mother showed me how to sprinkle
powdered cinnamon on electric coils —
create bursts of fragrant sparkling stars.

Later in my life, March became the month
for chewing a cinnamon stick each day —
to cleanse and refresh the body’s systems.

Then, hand-made cinnamon necklaces —
colorful ceramic beads strung with short,
mitre-cut pieces of rolled cinnamon bark.

Some people only know cinnamon buns —
or cinnamon toast, all mixed up with sugar:
this seems a sad taste of unreality to me.

Yes, we need remember cinnamon comes
from trees — cultivated in the Seychelles —
in Madagascar — in China, India, Viet Nam.

Cinnamon has long offered its unique value
around the world. Indeed, cinnamon sparkles
may have been my mother’s best gift to me.

. . . . .

Susan Powers Bourne
12 april 2017


The web, the link,
the wink, the blink.

Yarn that wends through labyrinths;
thin threads that may mend every hole.

Numberless invisible nadis, physical
nerve endings in every foot and hand.

Railroads, highways, natural riverways;
backs and spines of mountainous ranges.

Languages written in stone and on wood,
words in tongues known — and unknown.

All alphabets finally running together —
with each letter as it was originally formed.

Sacred world texts written and unwritten —
so many over-redacted beyond recognition.

The routes that birds and bees follow over
lands and seas; hummingbirds from Mexico.

Everything that has moved across the faces
of earth — all that is beyond and deep within.

Nothing escapes connection: those little tiny
lines that attach, detach, and reattach again.

. . . . .

Susan Powers Bourne
11 april 2017