Mystery, wonder, epiphany, sacred space.
What mean these words that stand
within the forest of a mortal’s life
like cedars—coniferous—or bloodwoods,
the water storers? Ignore, chop out roots
or claim them, standing upright in shade?
In ancestral stories, along each pathway
are these living giants, viridian branches
reaching out to offer sustenance and shelter
in wilderness of mind. Be it a place
of russet sand, street or spire, their canopy
awaits all those who seek for eye salve
to see within, without and truly know.
Like springtime after snow and branches
stirring in a breeze, time brings challenge
to become one’s truest self and simply be;
spirit-led, to realise the forest boughs spell out
a final word to all humankind: L O V E.
Music of the Seasons
Pain is just a word that others own
until there comes a day an orchestra
of phantom pins and needles steals within.
What truly is this strange and foreign sting
that now invades so fully like a fire,
innocent at first with honey glow,
then pizzicato avalanche of heat?
And why a tangled tingling of the strings,
some here, then there, in dancing keys
that cause percussion’s sudden stream of shrieks
or groans like double bass in agony?
A victim wears a veil of fear and grief.
Pain may be the winter of the soul
but to everything there comes a time,
a season in the symphony of life:
the stir of rising sap in bush and tree
when chilly greyness turns to budding green
as springtime brings rebirth and bright relief;
and then the passion of a summer kiss,
a sonnet in a dream of golden days;
followed by the rainbow road ahead
in autumn’s leafy dance of minuet
and praise before the great finale falls,
a time to raise the brimming cup and drink.