With damage done…
A sparse oak will cling for life.
Past peak leafs will stay beyond the changing of a summer’s guard.
Beauty, evermore present… while seasons wane and become…increasingly hard.
Eclectic vibrancy fills the air with sighs of…relief.
Balancing the acts of outside forces…
Again and, again, flowers from the weeds.
When great trees fall,
rocks on distant hills shudder,
lions hunker down
in tall grasses,
and even elephants
lumber after safety.
When great trees fall
small things recoil into silence,
eroded beyond fear.
When great souls die,
the air around us becomes
light, rare, sterile.
We breathe, briefly.
Our eyes, briefly,
a hurtful clarity.
Our memory, suddenly sharpened,
gnaws on kind words
Great souls die and
our reality, bound to
them, takes leave of us.
dependent upon their
now shrink, wizened.
Our minds, formed
and informed by their
We are not so much maddened
as reduced to the unutterable ignorance
of dark, cold
And when great souls die,
after a period peace blooms,
slowly and always
irregularly. Spaces fill
with a kind of
soothing electric vibration.
Our senses, restored, never
to be the same, whisper to us.
They existed. They existed.
We can be. Be and be
better. For they existed.
The War and the Peace…wash over me.
Remote and distant…I am not what I appear to be.
Sages and Mages and Philosophers and such…
have come here.
Their guile has spoken to the river’s run wild.
Yet, alone, one by one, they perch…
And, I am not in their final shrewd search.
Granite solid, wet and understated and an overgrown child.
Civilizations have gone astray inspite of my style.
War and Peace have come to my shore.
Searching for an easy door.
Missing the reticent rubble…looking for the golden ore.
Papered the stall with all.
All that is witty and wise.
Left the lid up to all the nonsense bought while watching fame rise.
Crutch and cane,
inches from a disabled reach.
These are the actions of a sightless woman willing to see.
Full knowing with glasses on…she is ill equipped to preach.
Supposing she mistook a tempered stone for gold.
Supposing in an enchanted forest,
there had been castaway quests to understand.
Suppose in the dark, she shall never share her travel plans.
In our every deliberation, we must consider the impact of our decisions on the next seven generations. – Iroquois Maxim (circa 1700-1800)
Humankind has not woven the web of life. We are but one thread within it. Whatever we do to the web, we do to ourselves. All things are bound together. All things connect. -Chief Seattle
Hold on to what is good,
Even if it’s a handful of earth.
Hold on to what you believe,
Even if it’s a tree that stands by itself.