Bluebells
bring upon faith—
happy teardrops
waiting to be
unfurled, tendrils
on their stem
still waiting to grow,
eager for the beauty
that a bell withholds.

All other flowers blur
behind these bells of wisdom,
like back in the old house
in Roslyn, where we had
a mini garden
with orange tulips
gleaming
in the fading moonlight
of fertile brown soil,
earthy and sweet,
and I would fold
in my fertilizer beads:
green pearls
were what I called them
as a child—

each pearl giving rise
to its most perfect
plant: beingness
folded inside,
all as one,
soul in body.