the enso

"A Dove's First Home" by marlowe

the poem

We earn our first breath by struggle
— no pain, no gain, they say —
but what of it, this zero-sum game?
The only evidence is this empty shell, barren,
and the jagged edge where you pecked
your way to freedom from
this womb, like an ancient cave dweller,
its history already forgotten, wanting
nothing more than life itself.
Perhaps there is nothing more powerful
than this urge to breathe in open spaces.

The shell remained untouched for days,
no longer needed since a new struggle was found.
I stepped around this artifact each morning,
honoring its sacredness, noting
the thin membrane, the mortal coil now a shriveled root
no longer required to ground you.
Yes, what of it? I imagine
you have doubled in size,
often obey your parents, and will
someday return to this suburban hedge,
calculating what will be required to continue.

the enso

"Dragonfly IV" by Mark Hiebert

the poem

What if we lived our lives like Tinker Bell?
What if we chose to spread our magic fairy dust
with each flick of the wrist, each wishful thought, each blink
of an eye? What if we applied these confetti sprinkles of light
to any moment or encounter, twinkling like stars
whose brilliance shines even when no one looks at the sky?
What if all we left behind were dust balls of love?
What if these flights were unlimited
by space or time? What if we could transform every thing
by simply blessing it, the cascading starbursts of acceptance
opening all boundaries to knowing
our true being?