One bright afternoon, you see Some wild birds in play. If you remain silent, You can make out what they say. Sit here in the sunlight, One bird says to her friend. Because in a few short weeks, This fair weather will end. Soon comes hibernation, The ritual of sleep. As for you and me,…

I feel that we’ve found a place Where shadows are of light. It’s the first time I have not been frightened of the night. Crickets on their leaves are singing To the moon above. Fireflies blink in and out And watch the stars with love. Weeping willow is a maiden Crowned with silver hair. She…

Crickets have a preference for The bush outside my door. They’ve gathered there to make a song I’ve never heard before. If the stars had voices, I would think they’d sound the same— All abuzz with energy, A summer night untame. Wait! here come the fireflies. And look at how they dance! Choreographed perfectly, A…

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…

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…

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…

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…

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…

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.