I will never write enough
An old clock ticks;
It’s half-past one.
Above, a Star
Sees everyone.
The broken souls
On streets below
Have found no cure,
No place to go.
The old clock has
Not known a night
When Star has turned
Away her sight.
Stirred by pity
At human fright,
She breaks the fog
To shine her light.
Twirl with me;
I’m dressed
As if I had died
Years ago.
Memories will
Wrap around us
Like rolls of
Fine silk.
You can never
Know for sure
Where our old waltz
Could go.
Wear your gloves
And we shall trot;
See the moon?
Pale as milk!
Twirl with me:
This music
Follows you
If you say no.
Great love helps a plant grow strong.
Her children can withstand the storms
Of life when tears become the song
And there is much to mourn.
Great love gives fire to a hearth
When winter nights are long and bleak.
She’s nurturing the growing earth,
Comforting the weak.
Great love—she’s an ocean wide,
The deepest and the warmest sea.
There are always hugs inside,
And they’re always free.
Evening’s colder.
The crickets are crying.
October nears, and
The forest is dying.
Birds in their companies
Far-away flying;
Trees shedding foliage—
Their forest is dying.
I’m in a fog, and
My spirit is sighing.
Where can I go where
My wood isn’t dying?
Shadows are stretching;
Perhaps I was lying.
Here I will stay, and
The forest is dying.
I wear flowers in my hair,
Even when they’re not in bloom.
Vining plants are everywhere,
Winding ‘round my room.
God made four seasons to be;
He is wise and he is fair.
Still, I look around and see
The Green is ever there.
Let me dream that things can stay,
Even after a farewell.
Then I can more easily say,
“So long—time will tell.”
Autumn does not mean a thing:
Forests spring up in my heart.
This dream I’ll keep nurturing,
Until I’m full of art.
Soft, persistent
Autumn air,
Bringing in the
Winter fair.
There is much
I must forget,
But the year’s
Not over yet.
Cool and smelling
Of a hearth.
Copper foliage
On the earth.
Fill my lungs
And soothe my soul;
Snow will come
And find me whole.
She’ll pass through the wood
In her midnight-blue gown.
Always she visits
The sleepy old town.
Many have seen her
But none know her name.
She does not speak to them;
It’s all the same.
Folk say her weeping
Brings trees from the ground,
Tears like a river—
O! mournful, the sound.
A lad claimed she joined him
On a moonlit walk…
But he can’t describe her,
So how can he talk?
One thing is for certain,
She reigns in the night,
Pale as a moonbeam,
To some a great fright.
Good mothers tell children
Not to stay out late.
One doesn’t know
When the Lady doth wait.
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.
