The butterfly is like a flower
which moves its station every hour.
Oh,happy is he on the wing.
The vision makes me quick to sing.
The flower is open in the sun,
And to its heart, true love shall come.
The bees shall feast and fly replete
With nectar they are now full sweet.
I sing of color and of love,
Blessings that rain down from above.
I wish to be a flower too.
Ah,that the bee could but be you.
I used to like doing statistics
I read Meister Eckhart one year.
I found some little bits very clear.
I agree I am naught
In blindness am caught.
I am almost convinced I’m not here.
Doing the pruning is good.
Take off the dead bits of wood.
Oh,God prune my soul,
Help me to be whole.
I may even come into new bud.
Is God just a metaphor?
Do you really know who you are?
I was in my room
When a feeling of doom
Made me run straight into this bar!
I think I’ve mislaid my soul
I was washing it in this white bowl.
So well did I rinse,
I’ve not seen it since.
So how will I ever grow whole?
I think the detergent’s too strong.
I felt in my heart it was wrong.
A soul is too fine,
For modern design,
and especially for a very sharp tongue.
I always loved contemplation.
I can do it even while waiting.
Life goes so fast,
From the first to the last.
I’ll meditate in your arms on the Station.
How my heart sings 