She has a hug which overcomes
the sorrow of an age.
Her words spill out of a hand-crafted cabinet.
She sails out of the cabinet
like a schooner bound for an uncharted shore,
past the buoys, lighthouse, trade lanes,
past the longitude and latitude of comprehension
into the brilliant dark of the unknowable.

She is searching for your treasure, searching for your soul.
Searching for a wind to fill your sails.
The trails of white caps meander past the guardians
of your insecurity.

The wind, her breath, the word ...
She brings it all to your table.
She holds your hand through every war.
She takes all the missiles and bombs
and places them out of reach.

On an island of mistrust, misunderstanding,
worry and fear,
she surrounds the island with clear markers.
She redefines compassion for the living,
sings a song for those who are gone,
brings wind to the flower island,
scatters pollen across your heart.
scatters pollen across your childhood,
memory, dreams and desire ...
The pollen clings to all it touches.

The brilliant dark, myth and intuition ...
Feelings bud with new colors painted by the wind.
Her breath ... the word.
Her ship ... the Lingo.