Labyrinth Standing Still
I’m looking down dense corridors of trees
where he beckons; laughing as the wind
whips me and the leaves
swirl. In this maze of red and gold
I look for winter to sooth summer’s burn.
Running to him, staff in hand, the trees
turn me ‘round and I am blinded
by this vibrant shell. Spinning,
spinning, but never moving, never noticing these
cyclone bars. I pray for silver and blue, a trace
of green life, But all hope escapes
while I keep running, finding nothing
as night’s ink descends and I with it.
Morning again, his laughter
greets me, though not his face.
With my staff in hand to break free the broken.
I seek him, who dances in the wood with scarlet
ribbon laughing in the wind’s embrace.
I’m looking down dense corridors of trees
In a red and gold cage I seek
to save the broken, But I am running
nowhere, only spinning in a maze
of red and gold, with dark tree corpses
and his laughter.
His Picture
I dust off the glass I used to kiss every night, But the space between phone calls
Is a chasm and a lonely wooden frame cannot claim my heart.
As the miles stretch us apart, I accidentally see your picture
And wonder if I care.
Birth of Birch
Her ice coats a dark wood, protecting the life held within.
Heat of a new soul rises forth, breaking the earths embrace.
The world cracks and plummets around the tender shoot.
The sun nourishes by melting the shards.
Spera Wavewind
The silver moon wanes
The silver moon wanes. Soft snow floats down to cover the moss, outside in the sheltered clearing. In the quiet cotton of winter she sits, cheek against her knees, an idle finger drawing love in dust. Cobwebs dance curtaining the window in life and death. The attic whistles; wind armed with cold fondles the house, a woodwind quartet of weathered beams, rusted nails, shutter slits and shifting age.
The silver moon wanes. She sits in silence, waiting for stars, waiting for light. She watches her hair brush across the dust of the room, brushing away the chilled age and memory, of a room, long ago left to wither. There were friends here once; where laughter and dreams have faded to hope.
The silver moon wanes. Liquid memories sing in the confines of her mind, whistle and dance, animadversit. Mind, heart, soul, breath, she turns to in the comfort of loneliness.
The silver moon wanes. Cold now prickles her skin under soft cotton. She hums softly during the bridge of twilight. The silver moon wanes. The snow hugs an old house. A girl rests her cheek against her knees, comforted by the wind playing with time, with age. The girl sits, in the dust of laughter and dream, with old cherry trunks and willow floors.
The silver moon wanes. She withers, dust settling in her skin, settling on her bones. The wind wraps snow, lovingly around the house, where she waits, endlessly for dawn. The wind pillows snow, gently against the window, concealing the curtains of life and death, where the silken webs feed and destroy.
The silver moon wanes.
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