The brassica weeds with their yellow blooms,

The WineCups, maroon, that flower here, now,

In the ancient amphitheater where Asclepius healed the sick

Are edible,

Medicinal,

Just as the ancestral plants that grew here then.

They’ve always been.

And these children that thrive today in the flora family,

Have emerged from seeds that found their way up

Through the ancient rock that formed the seats

Where our ancestors sat

To hear each other speak their truths

And bare their souls 

In search of cathartic healing.

The caduceus stands.

The brazen serpents may represent 

The strands of our dna

Rising from the clay from which were formed,

Combined with stormy seas,

And nourished by the primordial plants

That gave rise to these

Wild Mustard seeds that continue to grow

And the delicious mallow family 

We know as WineCups today,

And we, ourselves, the fruit of this earth

Which has peopled continuously 

Since time immemorial.

But if you come here,

No need to bring a lunch

With wrappers you would need to trash,

Just munch on the wild grasses known as mustard and WineCups.

-jenn

 There is a sentiment that has been misused

And overused 

And people have been abused with it,

But there was once a great medicine man 

Who, on his deathbed 

Told his son,

And his granddaughters.

He told me, “Tell the people not to cry. 

Tell the people to be happy”

If you go outside and look up into the sky, 

It doesn’t matter if the sky is blue,

Or if you see the puffy clouds,

Whether they be white or gray, or at the sunset,

The deep purple and pink and tangerine,

You will have a deep feeling inside 

That the sun is always shining.

There is always light somewhere.

Sometimes the sun depends on you 

To be like the moon

And reflect the rays of living light

In beautiful ways here on this earth.

Sometimes I hear a parent say,

“Stop crying.”

This is not the same.

They tell their children to look the other way,

Deny what is and try to look happy anyway,

But that’s not Faith. 

Faith is seeing things exactly like they are,

Accepting them,

And knowing that,

Not only the Sun, but also 

The cosmos and the stars shine, too,

To the space around you in a way that makes miracles possible.

Every minute of every day this great power is available 

To those who clear the arena of their minds

Of doubt and fear 

And let the great creator appear

And replenish the energetic dance

Of true power around them.

And so it is something very different I say to you today.

This is not for the children who play upon the earth,

Because they already know.

This is for the grown ass people:

“Tell the people not to cry.

Tell the people to be happy,”

The echo of my grandfather.

-jenn

 Egads, my Love!

The sky is blue,

But icicles dangle on the trees

Between me and you.

My toes were frostnipped twice! I tried 

To go outside and find you.

I long to go and warm your heart,

But would I rather start a fire in here alone

To keep me warm,

Than attempt to resist the rising of the sun at dawn

And Winter’s cruel grip

Upon the frozen hinterlands of Norway?

Your fair cheek, the pale strands of hair hang down,

Ice gray eyes, and cold sea blue your lips have grown toward me.

Am I strong enough to see that spring will come

If I can bear to let this earth turn as it may

And wait for that warm day to spurn the cold?

How old will I be when equity brings that holy mayday?

Whatever my age, in that great year,

These beautiful drops of these frozen tears

Will hang from a delicate chandelier,

Tiny ornate pendulums that will light the great hall

Where we will dance and celebrate the end of doldrums,

And dedicate ourselves to the understanding 

That we have never suffered any separation in our hearts,

But only in our minds.

-jenn