I watched the slow fade of warm light cascade
along the surface of the water

Incandescent hues of pinks and yellows
Into one deep blue.

You turned to me and pointed
To the line along the horizon
Where the sun melted into the sea.

There was nothing so reflective,
of the love you gave to me.

Today I will write with no ego.
Look at me, writing with no ego,
I’m amazing.
****!

What I would give to write happy words,
To string together a poem
That left you and I assured
Of the warmth of a sunrise, swiftly ushered
By the chorus of blue jay prose

But each of these words is dyed black
By thoughts with no start or end,
Lilac, light, and love would lack
True meaning written by an insomniac
Who jrekkers with the Jabberwock

I envy you, you whose thoughts soar
Lift us with your feathered pen,
Impart the fervor you store
In each tranquil rhyme and sanguine metaphor
I’m glad for you, you poets.

The years add up
But you never truly forget  
Just cover it up
with leaves, some brush
an old sheet or blanket
A drive
a new route around
Sometimes an old box in a closet
or under a bed work fine
to hide the time

until the winds of seasons change
bare it all again

..and there's never any tissues around

I was a child,
and you, an injured swan,
resting by the lake I skipped stones on.

My parents didn't notice when I took you in.
Children don't have much,
but I thought that all I had was enough

To heal you.

So, under the cover of night,
I wrapped my sleeves around your wounds
And you wrapped your wings over mine.

But everyone knows that mere children
Cannot care for a living being
All by themselves -

All by myself.

And my tiny room was nothing
Compared to the skies and lakes
That you loved.

They say children are observant -
at least I saw your sadness,
so I took you

Back

To the lake where we first met
and there I told you
To fly.

I was a child,
and you, a graceful swan,
soaring from the lake I skipped stones on.

Out of the mid-wood’s twilight
Into the meadow’s dawn,
Ivory limbed and brown-eyed,
Flashes my Faun!

He skips through the copses singing,
And his shadow dances along,
And I know not which I should follow,
Shadow or song!

O Hunter, snare me his shadow!
O Nightingale, catch me his strain!
Else moonstruck with music and madness
I track him in vain!