Winter brings the bitter chill,
I shiver standing in the cold;
We warm ourselves near the fire,
We bring a tree into our home.  

A blizzard wraps the wood around us, 
A glistening blanket - snowy white;
Our forest is so silent now;
Stars shine like diamonds in the night.  

In spring, the birds join in a choir,
Hundreds of songs in harmony, 
I look around and hear them sing;
Flowers bloom so gloriously.

I smell the scent of fragrant rain;
Showers drench the fertile ground.
I see the trees begin to leaf,
Rustling rain comes pouring down.

In summer the sun radiates,
Filling the forest with all that's green.
Oak and pine fill my nose,
I walk beside the crystal stream.

The grass it grows higher, higher,
I feel it soft between my toes;
From time to time a storm arrives,
Clapping thunder, wind that blows.

Autumn brings a change in palette;
Squirrels hide their treasured 'corns;
The taste of nutmeg - pumpkin pie,
Jack-o'-lanterns at our doors.

Mouths are filled with apple cider;
Leaves piled upon the ground;
Children jump into them laughing, 
Hidden in orange, maroon, and brown.

A thousand faces of the forest.
Winter; spring; summer; fall - 
And yet the face of my beloved
Is more beautiful than them all.

While you're away,
my thoughts wander
nomadically through
a sleepless desert.
I wonder if you're awake,
reaching to your left
as I reach to my right,
whispering, 'I love you,'
like I whisper
to the silence.

How can I sleep without
the soft cadence of
your breaths
singing me a lullaby?
Without the heat
of your body
reminding me
you're at my side?
Without your gentle
tossing and turning
to spur my imagination
and wonderment
at what could be alive
in your beautiful mind?

I've become an insomniac
wishing you were here,
wishing I could hold you again,
wishing you weren't
hundreds of miles away.
Rest only comes
when I cling to the hope
of your return.

Hear the following prayer
in the timbre of gratitude:

I've had enough with all the bags
in which I carry my things,
with bright screens that sting my eyes,
and with the musical strings.

My ears are sore from the machines
that change and amplify the waves;
so bring me the thoughts of poets and
bring me the prayers of saints.

Whisper the wisdom of years gone by,
of life spilled out in the streets.
My heart is weary, the weight of this world
has brought me to my knees.

There's only one thing I ask
for which to dull the pain;
bring me the thoughts of poets and
bring me the prayers of the saints.

Why can't life be this?
I asked my wife as
we sat underneath our
white polyester blanket,
snowflakes gently striking
the pavement and our
gray-blue mailbox outside.

Why can't every day be Saturday
when you and I awake to
each other's smiles?
We would hold each other
and be thankful that we
have nowhere to be
this quiet afternoon.

We would find purpose
in cleaning the laundry,
in washing the floors,
and we wouldn't need to worry
about any bills or those
leftover to-do lists waiting
at work from the week before.

I'd like to imagine this
is what Heaven is like,
no worries, or cares, or toil;
just relaxing each day
with a chestnut and clove candle
warming our senses
as we sit in silent contentment.