The Sun is setting;
Roots of trees
Creep ‘round my
Tired bones.
All the Nymphs have
Bowed their heads—
The Daisy and
The Rose.
Calling me,
They ask for help—
Or ask for me
To come
With them to Sleep
Until the spring,
For they and I
Are one.
Leaves will change
From green to gold,
Like they do every year—
But I cannot
Watch them crisp
Without shedding a tear.
The cricket-chorus
Will be gone,
Our bushes will be still.
When frost sets in,
Ice-cold like death,
I will absorb the chill.
Even lovely things
Need sleep
To flourish in the day.
Flowers bow
Their graceful heads,
And I wish they would stay.
Two broken souls met
On the road less traveled.
One longed to forget
That he’d come unraveled.
The other soul, aching,
Cursed up at the sky.
Her every step shaking,
She cried out, “Why?”
Their paths met at last,
And the silence was loud.
Their breath came out fast
In the frost, forming cloud.
Walk alone in your pain,
And you might think it fair.
Meet a soul, and it’s plain:
You were going nowhere.
Old watches of silver
In glass cases, ticking.
How many days have
These timepieces seen?
How many gloved hands
Went to them for guidance?
How many places
Have these treasures been?
Their desperate ticking
Is making you itch
To run paths forgotten
And times far away.
Gears are still turning,
Memories burning.
Go check the time
Before it goes astray.
Stars above flash in their envy;
The Stream below’s crying out loud.
Even the Lady Moon turns away,
Concealing her face in a shroud.
A body of crimson Trees shiver.
Cricket-song rises, protest!
An ancient Wood full of enchantment
Knows no spell to give it rest.
Are these the days of Beginning–
Or is it the start of the End?
We could not comprehend the green,
But let us now pretend.
Why would a Firefly flicker,
Or a Vining-plant tangle in plight?
Were they not made in perfection?
Wouldn’t their burden be light?
What has a Flower to pine for?
What makes Stars fall from above?
Perhaps the answer is simple:
In their beauty, they want Love.
Carpets of starlight
Roll over our lands,
Gardens we tilled
With our own hands.
A dark, silken ocean
Flutters beyond;
Her song is sweet,
Her reach is long.
Fireflies twinkling
Pay us no mind.
Their faint lights
Leave us behind.
Summer has ended,
Autumn is come.
The flowers know
Their work is done.
“May I have this dance?”
Said the ancient oak
To the pine-tree grand,
She who never spoke.
“Won’t you move with me?
For our roots are strong,
And we both have seen
Moments far too long.”
Then he held his breath,
Hoping she’d agree.
O! the wait was death
To this wizened tree!
Pine-tree trembled, shy;
Oak resolved to wait.
Let the years go by,
For their love was fate.
Better watch your step,
Stargazing again!
Pay attention to the sign.
Don’t focus so much on rhyme.
You’ll wake up—but when?
Stuck in your own head,
You’ll soon fall behind.
There’s a trap you can’t escape
When your thoughts are not in shape.
Seek, but you won’t find.
Soon the Moon will turn.
Stars, they come and go.
Better look down at your map;
It’s forgotten on your lap.
Perhaps then you’ll know.
With the proper Madness,
I will gather all the stars
In a wicker basket, for
The Universe is ours.
Let me live in Wonder of
The things they cannot see:
I have tried the safer path.
It had no room for me.
Why are you not dreaming?
Don’t you feel a spark inside?
Who has said you’re living life,
If Madness you must hide?
Autumn’s chill caressed the Wood,
And coaxed her into Sleep.
Leaves then fluttered from the Boughs
Into a towering heap.
Man admires the Wild-flower,
Gem-like on the ground;
But what of the slumbering Tree
That cannot make a sound?
Are not all things in this Wood
Reflecting how, in Life,
Living things can’t set their roots
Without enduring strife?
Can’t Life be admired
Without silken cloaks of red?
Don’t trees possess beauty
In their bones once Leaves are shed?
Nature peeled back Summer’s quilt
Of flower-beds and all things green.
Soon the plants began to wilt;
Windows took a frosty sheen.
In place of grass, the lawn turned pale
Beneath a sheet of fresh, white snow.
The pond became a crystal frail;
Frigid water lurked below.
Picture now that Mother fair,
Deciding that our land should sleep.
She tossed her Snow into the air,
Shrouding hills in blankets deep.
There is a sacred hollow
Where the fireflies in play,
Can inspire a shattered heart
With hope for a new day.
Wind creeps between the branches
Of the trees stronger than time.
After rain, the ground sends up
A scent rich and sublime.
We venture there in daydreams
To escape the winter gray.
In the shelter of the trees
We all would like to stay.
