Everything we don't understand, we can simply call mystery.
Mystery is knowing the first but not the surname of your grandfather.
Or mystery is the dead bird that lay on your front step, beautiful and still.
A spider web attaches itself to the mailbox every day; this too is mystery.
A bigger mystery is how hard you work and never seem to prosper.
But mystery is the sudden purpling of fruit in a wilderness of green.
After rain, heat; then the mystery of mycelia mapping roots underground.
There is more mystery in thin colors than in opulence and brilliance.
Fashion isn't interested in mystery that doesn't reveal what's underneath.
Mystery is the mouth that kisses every hollow of my body in dreams.
I want to cultivate mystery, but I'm not sure it means the same as mystique.
Mystery coats glass with mercury or silver, so we can look in the mirror.
If you can clearly imagine something, does it lose all its mystery?
At night I want to fall quickly and deeply into the mystery of sleep.
Purveyors of fine poetry since 2003.
