"Departure, Serene"
A whisper to the sycamore
In the holy warmth of summer
Shrouds our hearts among wildflowers.
These greens and shades of earth
Neither call us to a table,
Nor point to the beaten paths of fathers.
Simply and softly,
These woods whisper of the truth
In our mortality.
The wind laps up the dew,
Nudges the morning listeners,
Peels the leaves from the trees.
The vines long to dance,
To hold themselves together.
By the silences, the ibis lands,
Red as an apple, lonesome as I.
A consideration and departure, serene.
We rise, climbing in the breath of the sun’s praise
With our spirits outliving stage after stage of affairs.
We grip the majestic –
How the mountains wait in confinement,
The streams of life, content to wander
Through the sumptuous stone blades
And to the ocean, what a grave site.
Her mighty waves, like wings,
Lift to expose coverts, wild,
And plunge into the face of permanence.
The woods, in its course, mend mortality.
As a shell clinging to a shell,
A cicada fixed upon the sycamore,
We remember how loyal these colors remain.
And still our memory separates us from this canvas.
The bleakness hangs us with green sashes on,
A part of the past hanging just past the arm.
Strength discloses in the grazing of our hands,
A whisper to the trees.
No comments:
Post a Comment