Praying mantis handed  

to climb mine olive branch 

in Ventourata. 

Mamma Thomas’s roses given 

a man working my land 

to be that his Papa 

gave he; 

in so, laying treasures 

beyond measure for family. 

As fresh as rain, you came 

to cut my wings from within. 

Burn my sprouts. 

My dust returned to rest. 

Come winter’s showers  

for I will rise from nest.

Feed at my breast full of oil. 

Ever honor my flame

in heavenly gratitude 

for my fruit 

to consume 

under the shades of the moons 

to come again 

in autumn’s winds. 

Land, until then. 

My bark talks of languages heard 

in words spoken under my leaves. 

Next to me, herds of goat’s bells ring 

and sheep sing. 

Your body swells in the perfume you

exhume from my lungs. 

Pull my fruit in my shade. 

Unfold a seat and talk of old 

with tones of other accents from long ago. 

I was here to shade 

before your current form

and watch your finer bodies 

chase and run. 

Come again. 

There is no end. 

Return to me. 

Rooted eternally. 

Smoke floates to the notes 

of another season 

of trimmed limbs and stems. 

Mamma and Papa hold hands. 

Must the day end? 

There are no words for the verbs. 

No painters can paint the scene. 

My roots penetrate 

and drink from my stones

and flows in your bones. 

The bitter the better. 

Learn from the letters A to Ω. 

Crawl under my spreading dwarf holly 

to discover caves 

I’ve paved   

with magenta oleander leaves, 

on your way 

to Katsarata. 

Frolic in my beds 

sleeved of lilac hued 

cyclamen. 

Gaze upward at their hearted 

framed leaves 

to find the underside 

purple lined. 

Listen to the music of the belled sheepfold 

echoing the shepherd’s cue. 

Rumble through my ancient queues 

leading you 

to sights untold 

to behold 

my garden of eden.

Jasper green moss 

has engulfed 

the invigorating, refined, 

rough, white limestone, hand honed walls 

by tools made of stone,

sat upon by the ancient ‘lone 

before the wash of emerald’s puddled 

robe joined to line the lane of footed prints 

pressed in lemon balm’s minted 

carpets infused with lavender cyclamen, 

dusty sage and violet blossoms 

of oregano on hinge

to rise for foot again, 

bedded my view from Antipata 

to Fiskardou Bay today.

Before the drops did’th come,

they say,

non like these had ever dropped. 

Calla lilies’ have clung 

to the roots of the fir, 

black pine and cypress to flourish 

in mid air. 

The dwarf irises are opening 

and I Ieant 

to confirm the scent 

of three saffron stigmas 

in the heart of an autumn crocus 

growing amid 

a fiddlehead bed 

of miniature ferns. 

You laid 

upon pebbles inside her caves 

at Dafnoudi Beach 

to be crowned 

and give birth. 

Now, looking into the shine 

of your own eyes 

at your side, 

peering up in trust 

without lust, 

the pain is forgotten.

Welcome back to her shores 

with yours, 

her heirs. 

Thrust thy body into her arms. 

The children’s laughter echos 

off the moss covered walls 

that led

you to her bed. 

Watch them at the rippling edge

of her skirt.

Let them hold her tender, loving hands 

protecting each from the twisting winds 

to come again,

bask and play 

with their father home with the prey.

Open your lips 

and drink the rainfalls 

from above;

make love 

again in her nest. 

Rest 

your head in her bosom. 

Tip 

and 

nip 

at her feet in the shade of her white,

limestone cliffs. 

Repose upon her stones 

in view of her throne. 

Turn to see

the neighboring 

Lefkada lying 

among the 

purple islands in 

her turquoise sea. 

To be fare, 

I could not be aware 

of mine 

but to have gazed into thine? 

Nourish my soul with your essence 

of innocence.

Press your lips to mine 

until morning breaks. 

Allow me to lie down 

and hold your subtle shapes

sculpted by wind

swept hands

and stroke your breast 

to rest 

at the edge of your 

Ionian shores

with your loveliness pressed 

to my core. 

Your roar 

can be heard 

in the thickets of your raised spine, 

as in mine, 

and vibrates in the beetle’s whisper 

under your olive trees

in Lixouri

where oils pour

as golden as our mother’s rays 

and restores.  

The bay lay  

purple today 

rippled with sparkles 

faceted to reflect 

violet diamond rays. 

Ink flowed from his tip 

to write the words from his lips 

sign my name 

under the same 

on the balcony he had stood 

to witness, meet 

and greet. 

I, in Fiskardou square. 

He, high in the air, as sweet 

as an autumn breeze, 

met my morning 

to welcome the climb 

up the stairs 

to stare 

into unaware 

kindness,

no blindness,

sun kissed gold ends 

of deep, golden dark, strand 

hair. 

Thin hands 

held the stylo’s flow 

for his and mine

and back again. 

Hand to hand.

Man to man. 

Come in. 

It is time to go  

to Fiscardou.

It’s a know so. 

Along the path I am on 

there has been a garden 

and 

a home to share.

The fare is air. 

Cypress trees grow there;

flowers, too.

I may plant a few 

and turn around 

to the blue 

and 

green 

Ionian

scene. 

I’ve been known to kiss the ground.

I have been found again. 

There are many places to land.

Frogs do.

I, too. 

So can you.

Jump. 

The surface is thin yet not 

and holds the capacity to turn

over 

again and again. 

Oh, to penetrate her center. 

That is were the secret resides. 

Within. 

It’s out. 

Her flame is molting hot. 

With just one tip, 

the covering slips. 

From her composition’s sustenance, 

she gives rise to all. 

New.

Old.

All are gold. 

Life is born out of debris. 

It’s the turn.

The present.

Be aware of the treasure 

or not. 

She isn’t afraid. 

Let all learn. 

The churn 

is ever on. 

There’s not a stop, on this line. 

I stop. 

You can, too. 

Just look at the lines 

and you will see that she has been here 

millions of times. 

Pollute the air. 

Write a song. 

Dance. 

Sing out loud 

or not at all. 

She will not fall. 

Just turn over. 

Dust returns to dust. 

Rust. 

Rust. 

When she speaks, 

all listen

by ear or not.

Feel. 

It’s real.

Here. 

Hear. 

Have no fear.

Her voice is love. 

That’s all. 

Was it Anthony 

of 

Alexandria 

or 

Paul 

that saw 

a vision of Mary stepping onto the soil 

of what is called 

the peninsula to the Mother of God?

It may have been neither. 

It doesn’t really matter. 

It is a garden unlike none that is in Her honor. 

There, I have walked along the slopes 

in sandals where even a mountain goat 

would have had to be careful. 

She is in the garden. 

The Son is, too.

He is in me.

I see Him in you. 

The Protaton holds a view of the Two

arm 

in 

arm. 

Theotokos and God.

I kissed them and the frame that holds 

the glowing 

images 

of grace, 

favor and 

mercy 

witnessing Divine Liturgies 

day and night by candlelight. 

But today, Easter Monday, They were carried through the streets of Karyes by the monks in the sun for all to see. 

When I look at them, 

I glow. 

He grew to become 

a man and hung 

on a cross. 

His blood run 

from the wounds.

The thief, 
 
at his side, 

was welcomed to Heaven. 

The crowd cheered.

Did they realize 

that 

that breath 

became theirs?

Forgiven. 

He is Risen. 

In the garden today, amethyst, blue and purple colored pods emerged from under their leafy, covered heads. 

It was like witnessing an Orthodox monk bowed before an icon lifting his face of beaming grace and kissing the Saint. 

Lord Have Mercy, he says, as he prays day and night for all mankind. 

The chipmunks and I have watched the procession before. 

First, the green tips reveals themselves by piercing through the mulch protectively hugging the fragile jewels. They have risen from the earth before and know the bite of ice, the killing chill, that could come. 

As the days lengthen and the sphere shifts on it’s axis, the leaves will unfold for all to behold. 

I, myself, at this very moment, just knelt on my knees and kissed true royalty. 

All things are divinity. 

Day after day passes and the heads will lift higher and higher to welcome the light. 

I lifted my hands in praise to the clouds and the rain, 

and I bowed my head to thank the earth 

for all the nutrients given for this birth. 

The pods will open one by one to face our loving sun. 

We, together, the flowers and I, thanked the life sustaining ball of fire;

in a few days, the entire performance will return to the soil. 

Don’t look to see. Not even a leaf will remain. 

There’s no cause for alarm. 

They are not gone or harmed. 

They have been here all along and are only changing robes for the next manifestation that happens naturally and has for all eternity.