In the north there is a man who screams when the waters sing
For he once came cross the banshee of the seaside spring

And in that failing light saw wrapped her pallid strands
Round the whole of her one and sallow pointed hand

To the trunk-grown sword and verdant surcoat 'tween
A phantom defiler, a hanged man, the crime unseen

She sullen moved to mournful wail, deep of soul
But found no purchase in mortal air to extol

For where once was this sad shadow's throat
A cruel sentence had some former blade wrote

In a sick and seeping horror the man did freeze
As the banshee descended towards the trees

At length the water sprang from earth again
His movement restored, bloods color to skin

The greatest terror he recalled in lonesome woe
Is of the dead woman forced to her silent sorrow

What breath he borrows from your question
That he might live between your punctuation
And Death, in its mercy, avert its gaze
A resurrective reprieve if only for as long as to say
He had a predilection for cold sores
For pushing harder than was required and giving more than was needed
When he appears to me, he shares a knowing glance
A promise of explanation to the sudden unanswerable absence
As he moves to speak, and share the elusive truth
I awake
I always wake

Look there to the distant dimpled dunes
Look there to the mix matched mountains
Listen here to the tree tickled tunes
Listen here to the fresh freeflowing fountains
Feel here the mother that's borne us each
Feel here the earth and what it has to teach

The severed canyon split-snakes out beyond my view
Like a hazardous sidewalk God has yet to fix
It would be a nuisance to the strong strided
Or a beautiful scar to the like minded

Do clouds feel bad about the shadows they cast?
Or do they revel in the reprieve from rays they hold?
Do people feel bad about the room they take up?
Or do they remember their impact on others?

The rosebud wind tickles my nose
Or maybe it is my allergies
I have missed the touch of spring

There is an ideal bench under the sign at the end of my street
It seems a peaceful spot, with its deep color and curve
As I pass it daily, I imagine sitting there, lost in thought
About who has wronged me, and how I'd hurt them back
About how the snow of my youth has lost its shape to ice
About how I now find benches at the end of streets to be ideal
But most of all, I imagine sitting there, public made private
The ability to transform the space I occupy into my own
Free of the tectonic worry that I should not be in this place
There is an ideal bench under the sign at the end of my street
It seems a peaceful spot, with its deep color and curve
I will sit there in a day to come, and in peace, observe