Your bookshelves are empty.
Outside, the leaves fall.
We’re waiting through
The saddest autumn of all.
Your piano is sleeping—
Too great for my hands.
Still, I will play
‘Til my heart understands.
I took home your paper
To sketch out your face,
But you have a smile
That art can’t replace.
The trees out your window
Have all become bare.
So I search my heart:
You will always be there.
I am owlhearted.
I sing and then I rest
On the highest shelf, on which
I made a cozy nest.
I am owlhearted.
I slumber in the day.
Fairies will come out at night,
And that is when I play.
I am owlhearted.
You can’t deceive me,
For it is not with my eyes,
But my soul, that I see.
I’m learning to draw. It’s helped me a lot with my poetry and music.
This is my first mirror self portrait. I’ll try again in a month. I’m happy with this, so I thought I’d share!
Also—embrace the curves. :)
I couldn’t put in ink a thought
To justify the gold unfurled,
As sleep began to settle on
My precious, quiet world.
No nature lover could have asked
For her to stay awake.
Living things could never work
Without a well-earned break.
Yet falling leaves can sound like tears
As flowers die and stir my fears.
The Moon began her lullaby
Long before I was born.
She sees nothing new on earth;
Why do I fear her scorn?
If she did not like me,
She would still have to shine down.
She cannot pick favorites:
All who live bask in her crown.
I breathe. The scent of
Dampened earth
Is rising from the ground.
It mingles with the
Pungent smoke,
A neighbor’s fireplace.
My garden’s fading;
Falling leaves
Create the only sound.
I settle down;
October air feels
Cool against my face.
Snowy hills have piled;
Whispering wind is heard.
Only Tuesday morning’s child
Makes out every word.
Frosty window-glass,
Snowy blankets grand.
Which dark things have come to pass
Upon this frigid land?
Things the sun has seen,
Things the moon will mourn,
Until every soul has passed
Away and been Reborn.
How can human tongue,
Limited, explain
What has hurt this land so long?
Who can be to blame
For these tears in the earth,
An emptiness that grows?
Words have very little worth;
Tuesday’s child knows.
Water cupped in my two hands
Bears the rich taste of the land.
Paths that loved me brought me here:
Eden must be near.
Maybe when I’ve breathed my last,
When what I know of earth has passed,
I will wander, light and free,
Underneath this canopy.
I drink. The water’s fresh and clean,
And I’m forgetting where I’ve been.
Overhead, a pigeon sings
Of love and gentle things.
If I should dive, would I need air?
Perhaps I would thrive swimming there,
Gathering shells and greeting trout.
I’d never come out.
Pigeon pleads for me to stay—
“Really, it’s a lovely day!”
Eden is not far, I know;
There’s nowhere left to go.
Why are you afraid to feel
The yearly sleep of winter,
When there’s frost-scent in the air
And leaves from the trees splinter?
Have you never longed to curl up
Underneath a quilt,
After a long day of toil
Caused your soul to wilt?
Wasn’t it the sweetest rest
When you could move no more?
The instant you rested your head,
Sleep began its lure…
Trees and flowers are like you,
Thriving on the land.
Do not mourn when leaves are crisp,
But try to understand.
Hear that rustle in the breeze?
It’s nature’s stifled yawn.
Go inside and find a blanket,
Because life goes on.
Trap a butterfly
In the wood.
It would fly away,
If it could.
It too longs to
Spread its wings,
Hearing what the
Season sings.
It fades into
The sky above.
Learn what it can
Say of love.
Where’s it going?
Why was it made?
Will its colors
Ever fade?
