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That time in spring, the sweetness
the yellow green of emerging leaves
the popping and exploding
the bright shattering of petals
lilac flowers in our hands.

Walking the woods with you
tracing deer trails for hours
along the rocky river bank
and in the sycamore forest
we saw the silver shining trees
impossibly branched and reaching
mingling in the vast blue sky.

In the deeper woods, mysterious birds
sang incessant songs, ancient and forlorn
always their singing is reminding me
of the endless beauty to be found
always a deeper feeling of love.
All day from the canyon
the wind birds hover
the dance of pines,
the free water.

The long grass that flows,
green seaweed of the river.
September's early leaves
paper, gold upon the water,
wild yellow petals.

The river's edge
shines with flowers, fully petaled
looking out upon the water
all day the blue, green, yellow of the water
all day until the red, gold of the evening sun.
In the cool stillness the desert awakens
night barely lingers, with dreams now afar
in the chill before the dawn
comes the fading of stars
blue before the sun
with birdsong
a new day
is sung
a little thought after watching the Perseids a couple of nights ago and then the coming of dawn.
Here in these beautiful hours
of night's deepest secret world
shines a speckled sky of diamond fire
blooms a starry portal of flowers unfurled.
Where sleeps the crescent moon
and drifts bright stars away
to bring a song of light
glowing from a thicket there
where tawny birds take flight
or dappled in the wooded trees
foggy breathes the morning light
with rousing sounds of faeries there
drowsy in their dreaming cares
they bid farewell unto the night
and to stars that sail swift into
the evanescent light.

Now springs another day from this woodland place
soft with mossy grays or starry lichen lace
green the leafy ferns will wake
with scented rains wet upon the bark
incense cedars drift and swirl
sweet, the air of smoke
until alas the sun so brilliant comes
from behind a clouded cloak
and disappears once more
the dawn that softly spoke.
How many times at this cliff, wild with winds
waiting for direction, even though storm clouds come
I look beyond, remembering the halcyon days
but today - rain, rain, rain
written for a number of reasons, one of them being I am home with the flu and have been brought to tears.....this too shall pass
high up in the tree
a lonesome feathery dove,
does he coo for love?
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