A rush of water reminds me of night
Something, I can see but…
is vacantly out of sight.
Dark as it may be,
the earth blankets me.
It covers me with luminescent sky.
Warning me to,
look behind words.
To pull truth from starred gods and…
listen in silence…
to be heard.
This love affair with mother nature has been such as,
a blind date.
a sideways glance from a well versed stranger.
Hints of dodging raindrops.
Nights when paths cross
and
dreams are caught.
I adore the echo a dog creates,
as it gallops full throttle with
no particular place to go.
The clamor contentment provides while
back scratching in the snow.
The sound of patience whilst on the hunt for crow.
Sounds like thunder
Smells like rain
Feels like dog and the gods, are one in the same.
Simple, a winter’s beach confronting a warm retreat.
Playing the fool I look back to the promised land of your presence.
Playing the fool I smell your on the dusky powder…
shadowed by only me.
Glancing for your love in the solemn pines and abandoned tundra there is no solace below or from above.
Treading softly, as you have taught, where is the peace that once had been sought?
Is it there are the front door, welcoming, soft and gentle?
Is it there in the moments of life without care?
…
I walk the woods.
I rove the trail.
Snow…knee deep, moments to myself…
‘did I fail?’
Fail to embrace what you once thought to be grace?
Such a quiet, whimsical, being that has left a memory to trace
This winter funeral leaves me in awe.
This winter funeral only betray’s love and her disgrace.
There is a singer everyone has heard,
Loud, a mid-summer and a mid-wood bird,
Who makes the solid tree trunks sound again.
He says that leaves are old and that for flowers
Mid-summer is to spring as one to ten.
He says the early petal-fall is past
When pear and cherry bloom went down in showers
On sunny days a moment overcast;
And comes that other fall we name the fall.
He says the highway dust is over all.
The bird would cease and be as other birds
But that he knows in singing not to sing.
The question that he frames in all but words
Is what to make of a diminished thing.
I have seen sorrow being dragged upon the forest bed.
Sorrow and Grief…her best friend.
I drag them barefoot…scrapping fractious feet upon disruptive, chaotic floor.
Both women, put upon by the light snow and distant screams.
With fist in a ball and charity along my lines of pine.
Sorrow comes as a matter of recourse.
And, grief…she grabs hold with a ragged limb.
She allows just enough for my carriage of thought to run…thin.
Sorrow and grief, my friends for now, remember every vacant vow
and…
the terrain, coarse with a mortal’s soul.
Gather 'round and hear a tale...
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