The entrance winds behind an imperceptible dirt road,
And if you pass too quickly, its glamour won’t yield;
Tricking you.
Chances are slim that you will pass it again.
But if you peek, and pry, and probe-
Fooling the glamour to slip a little,
The part in the trees will open to you.

Through the leaves,
Over the natural bridge,
And you come upon it.
Indian Steps.
Where smoke curls amid your hair,
And drumbeats school your heart’s own thrum.

The lake will lap on stony shores,
And voices, oscillate past you.
Here, the only shining thing is the sun through autumn leaves,
The only siren a steady note,
Drawn from the deepest woods and threaded through a flute.
The trees’ leaves embrace its call,
And give it back, lovely in their mimicry.
Just like the others who catch their eye here,
You will always choose to stay.

October, with lilting melodies that play,
Rocking my frame with frisson,
Has yet to send the warm winds away,
And succumb itself to autumn.

The season change has just begun,
We’ll watch it turn in equinox,
As I bid goodbye to the sun,
And again await its warmer rays.

I sometimes think the trees can scream
So loud as to change their color,
In desperate need to re-achieve the dream,
And catch the sun’s eye with their flame.

In groups of three,
Me, Myself, and I.
In three sentences,
I miss. I live. I sleep.
In three words,
Not Quite Enough.
In three syllables
Ex-Haust-Ed.

I am weary.
I must stretch my limbs,
And never let show,
The knots they bear.

I am tired.
The wells beneath my eyes are tinged,
As if to mimic a bruise,
And seem to have no intention of clearing.

I'm wiped.
Ready to let my heart relax.
And if anyone wakes me up,
I'll knock them out.

Quiet
...resolve
The voices are the tiniest hum-
-clashing as only voices can...
They all lift;
And.
Are.
No.
More.

I once knew a man,
One who played all the instruments,
And sang all the tunes,
And cried with the lullabyes when children bedded down.
And when I last met him,
On Father's High Hill
He told me, "Music is the only language you are born with."

I once knew a lady,
One who met with all the people
And loved with all her heart
And laughed when she saw the children run.
And when we last spoke,
In the summer's suburbs,
She told me, "We live to await the next emotion."

I once knew a couple,
One who lived with all their might,
And climbed every cliff,
And carried all the children in thier shoulders.
And when we last past,
In Leconte's thickened forest,
They told me, "Trying times are not the times to stop trying."

I once knew all of those people
And sang and loved and lived,
And played with my fellow children.
And when I last saw them,
Through the course of my life,
I would reply simply, "That's a truth to live by."

Two siblings walk, hand in hand,
Shoulder to shoulder,
their footsteps paving grass and stone
in wary gilding.
And when other footfalls trace their steps,
the feet will slip,
And the trail will have gone.

The siblings work in synchronization.
Unique independence,
Contrasting, and Dissimilar
both harmonizing in nature;
They tie knots in eyelashes,
Weave fine chain with obsidian,
and break nails with simple deeds.

I, with hands of hardened base,
and fingertips that stroke Saguaro spines-
Will reach for straw figures
with blank, witless features,
And cold tin men,
with ice coated *******-

And a sharp-edged shadow will bark at my heels.