this is probably my favorite:

White sheets outside before a July storm

With such sweet breath, by humble present hands,

Quiet deep eyes, an honest shape of mouth:

Quiet, gentle -near- my very self.

Whispering in reverence to sacred space

There is weight here, though sweet and simple

Settled in a meadow at the peak's base.

Thought-filled and spontaneous blossoms

Scattered by wind and sown by children's hands,

And red popsicle running down their sleeves.

Oh! And of laughing in stitches restitched

Tired threads holding old sighing seams

Foolish to believe this is my verse,

My soul is read when I try to read yours.