Beneath the moon,Arboreal cloud,
Of misting leaves
That rustle loud;
Against a sky,
The night gods prowl,
Or so it seems.
Of prickled ice,
A shawl of silver
Without a price;
This is the night
Of deepest thought
Where centaurs hunt
And dryads flaunt,
The world I know,
The place whose name
Is Spectral Wood.
Like the first snow,
You came to me,
Light and gentle,
Pure and untouched.
In an accumulation of you,
I allowed myself to be buried,
Consumed by cool,
Smothered by uniqueness.
But, like the winter you stemmed from,
I thought you’d leave,
Swept away on a northerly breeze,
But you lay still,
Only this time beside me,
And I knew happiness;
And I know happiness.
Like that first snow.
I took this image in Florence of Dante, the poet of all poets.
Recarving the carved,
And all it took was time
To create a new masterpiece.
If only temporality was afforded us all,
Then what fine sculptings we’d be.
Spectres of the past
Haunt my private Neverland
I’d fly, but wings clipped
In shadow and shade, I wander free
Beneath the bows of an old oak tree.
In sheltered calms allowed to grow
Protected from those I don’t know.
Is this safe world the acorn’s gift
To shine from out the behemoths shifts,
To peep from skirts, then duck back in,
As life is hard when you first begin?
To be an acorn that’s for me,
I think I’ll stay and grow to tree.
(Image courtesy covsocal.com)
Sapphire skies look down upon the creation of new life,
The ocean below becalmed.
Magma cools in a slow, relentless quest to reach water,
Its path marked in sunburst hues and spitting flame.
One day there will be an island here: soil; grass; birds,
And all the many facets of creation.
But for now there is only me,
As I sit by the waves and sample what it is to be the first.