Lower your voice in the garden.
Flowers have songs for the wise.
Sometimes you can hear them sing
To serenade the skies.

Lower your voice here, and listen.
This awareness will not hurt.
Here, the air is clean and you
Skip barefoot on the dirt.

One day, you’ll wish you had listened
When the Meadow tried to speak.
Life continues through the pause.
It doesn’t make you weak.

Lower your voice in the garden:
There’s more to life than the pain.
Hold your breath and take a step
And wait for it to rain.

Have you felt the chill of fall?
It’s come this way before.
See! it gathers over hills.
September comes once more.

Cooler mornings changing shifts
With eighty-degree days,
‘Til there comes October-land,
And sweater weather stays.

Nimble flowers bow their heads
And trees turn shades of gold.
Nothing lives that doesn’t rest:
This truth is sweet and old.

I feel the chill—my spirit stills
And seeks a warming hearth.
The golden hour has returned
To our part of the earth.

Meet me where the grass is fragrant
From the morning dew;
I have learned a melody
And want to sing to you.

It can’t be another place.
My voice won’t rise so high.
I won’t cater to a crowd;
I daren’t even try.

If you cannot meet me there,
The tune will slip away.
It will choose a stranger
Someplace else, another day.

A whistler claims the springtime air.
His rhythm stirs the water fair,
And swans, in envy, fly away,
Resigned to cry another day.

The whistler has no thing to mourn,
Unlike pedestrians forlorn.
For meadows come from storms of rain—
Small price for color we shall gain!

Dear whistler, never slow your tune.
Let it last through the afternoon,
And—if you please—into the night.
Your cheery song will set things right.

I collect forgotten things:
Dusty books and memories,
Fallen leaves from slumbering trees,
Music no one else still sings.

I wear a coat of happy dust,
Reveling in the Ancient smell.
How could I refuse to tell
These tales old? I must.

I glide through
Ageless galaxies.
Eternity
Does quake.

I soar through
Starstuff old and new
To show you that
I wake.

I pass through
Endless light-years,
And secrets of
The deep,

All to drive
Away the beasts
So you, my dear,
Can sleep.

This was written as folklore for a novel I’m writing. It’s supposed to be a song.

The lady of the brook
Sees the moon—he creeps above,
Dancing on her surface.
O! what could it be but love?

The lady of the brook
Waits each night for his return,
Never knowing that for her
His heart will never yearn.

which holy garden
could have been
mother to roses
of such sheen?

slumbering in the
promise sweet
of a september
soon to greet—

autumn so painless,
they’ll forget
the scorching summer
lives on yet.

see how this flower,
clothed in red,
yawning, bows her
pretty head.

With stars and
Streetlights
Guiding me,
I got lost all the same.

Searching for
The sunrise, I
Heard whispers
Of my name.

Heavenly
Dance slows for
Nobody,
Poets and sleepers alike.

Starlight and
Streetlight will
Keep their shine
Long into the night.