On the gentle ***** of a green and waving hill, vibrant with the life of spring, flowers fall from the outspread limbs of trees, an ocean in their sound, and fall gently to the earth, soft as a mothers kiss, upon a child's tender brow. The wild flowers are spread out among the grasses, bright spots of changing color, amidst the flowing green, waving in the springs gentle breeze, light glowing through the blades, shining in the sun, the scent of life and growth and change arising, slow and overpowering as the years to come, as ages gone. Underneath the spreading trees, their leaves give shade and succor to those who fear the light and hide from its revealing rays. A fox rustles through the underbrush, coat burning orange, a rushing flame in the green light, filtering down from the canopy above, dim in its softened form. Ahead a hare, leaning down to drink from a cool and quiet pool, looks up as a ray of light, pure and golden, falls from the heavens, as the light of God himself, admitted by the wind rushing, parting the woven branches, above, beyond the trees. The leaves spin and sparkle, sighing also in the breeze, and so a harmony ensues sighing leaves and rushing wind, in that tranquil, quiet place. Dust falling, innumerable motes of glowing light, they drift downwards, minuscule, as snow made all of light, dim and golden,  like the shining sands of heaven, swept down to fall to earth, and dust the earth with heavens bounty, and let its light sparkle for a moment, an age, in the quiet of the world. Far above the wooded hill, beyond the rustling grasses, and the colorful blossoms in their midst, high in the cold of the infinite heavens, and the currents of the flowing wind, an eagle soars, and so in mastery of the world below, the world above, does swoop to take unwary prey, in claws cruel in their curved dimensions, and the sharpness of their edge. But below in the world of quiet peace, though blood may drip from pure sky, and so enrich the flattered earth, all is yet still, and calm prevails, and if blood does fall, sprinkled from the heavens as a cruel rain, macabre in its crimson gleam and scent of severed life, it falls unknown, unmarked, to soak into the warm earth, receiving as it gives, and so is added once more to the cycle of life at the beginning, from which in time new blood will flow, through veins new and delicate, frail with the tender youth of new things begun, and so new life be born from death.

The Light is falling, slowly, as a golden radiance, thick and sweet as honey, dripping from the comb. I lie on bare mountains, and I lie in green meadows, and I dream, dreaming, dreamful, light and life and peace flow around me, enveloping me, as if I sink into a warm ocean, bottomless and calm and deep. My hair lies around me, and as I dream, I in wonderment and full of the glory of all, touch Gods hand, and life around me stills. I in my dreaming, Light pouring down slowly from the bright glory of the infinite heavens, open my eyes and see. And if I was ruined and weary, with death upon me, and my life flying from me, away and gone, pulled away as a beautiful kite might, in some windy spring day, fly from the protesting hand of a child, and soar away over the green trees and reaching mountains of the land, even if all this were so, and the Angel Of Death were upon me, fair hand upon my shoulder, even if all this were so, I would not trade my fate for any, for the light is falling all about me and a light is in the heavens  shining through me, and I feel the gentle pull, of peace and warmth, of tranquility and everlasting light, and I hear the call of angels, singing in many voices, in one voice, speaking in many tongues, in one tongue, and God is there and I hear him, he, founder of all, the God of Life, of Light, of Love. I hear him calling. I am floating now, spiraling slowly, away from all, away from everything, and into something more, amid the everlasting light,
and the sound of stars, singing in the light filled vaults of heaven, and I go, far, amid the everlasting light, and the sounds of stars, divine in peace.

The candle flickers against the wall
and darkly lights the cracks, hidden
in the yellowed plaster, while the light
dances with the shadows, and licks the
darksome panes, with an ember orange
glow. The moon is lifting pale face to the
welcome of the stars, and the sun is riding
low, soon to fall beneath the world, to
rest to shine again. A woman stands there,
watching, lovely in a crimson gown, and
a rose in her right hand lifted to her face,
while her other graces the window ledge,
As she gazes at the rising darkness, and the
fall of the weary sun, letting its rays kiss her,
hesitantly, before the the chill night rises slowly,
and the moon shines down again.
Ah, the pale moon! How lovely she is, white
daughter of the night, rising from the East
I'm her timeless dance, to glide over the heavens,
and retire in the west, yielding to the fiery sun,
as he comes to rise again. The woman closes her
eyes, and sighs, a fragrant breath, scents of
pomegranates, and oranges, and the stately
pear, ride within it, and so enrich the flawless night,
with a second quiet beauty, an echo to the first.
There is Jasmine in the air, wafting with the gentle breeze,
of a summers gentle night. Carried on that midnight wind,
It sighs about the womans face, and ruffles her night black hair.
The dawn is coming, pale light in the eastern sky, while all is dark
before. The woman steps from graceful window, arched with
fluid curves, and closes the window fast, the curtains rustle shut.
she lays her down to gentle sleep, upon a bed of straw. Her eyelids
flutter softly closed to rest, as the sun lifts his morning head,
and bathes the sleeping world, in light and laughing youth.
And so she sleeps, as dawn does rise, and men begin to stir,
for she is born of gentle night, and to night she does return,
but fearing the strong and burning light, she hides within her
little room, and sleeps the day away. For she is Jasmine, subtle
sweet, no lilly or blazing poppy. And she is happy. Content with
the night and the starry sky, and the softly watching moon. Content,
and lost, and all alone.

A frozen wind is whistling, all through the starry night.
snow within it, it howls along the frozen paths, of the midnight
winters winds, beneath the moon, and thousand lights.
The trees are whispering, dead leaves soon to fall, they voice
their last and final breaths, before the fall of wintertide, and
the stunted length of days. I sit and watch the evening fall,
and the leaves gone one by one, spinning down to frozen earth,
at the beck of the winter winds. I think of how I sit here, the how,
the where, the why. Why am I here, sitting and watching the death
of another year, quiet all about me, none beside me, while my age
rises from its restless slumber, and pronounces loud, my own mortality,
and the shortening length of days. Snow is falling, sound beneath the quiet,
adding depth to the empty silence. The snow falls all around, and blankets all
in pristine white, and a mantle of heavy quiet, beneath the clacking of the hardened
branches, and rustling of leaves, dead and doomed to fall, beneath the moon and
thousand stars, and the weight of early death.

Raindrops are
falling, tears
benign, falling,
from a winter sky,
and the mass of
windswept clouds.

The wind is
sighing, in
a winter sky,
and the grass
is softly waving,
the birds that
came are gone
again, with many
a piercing cry.
The silence reigns,
my dearest heart,
the reeds are softly
rustling. The smell
of pine is in the air,
why do you yet cry?

I am awake, at this ungodly hour.
Fragments of a dream forgotten,
fall through my clutching fingers,
like sand on a windy day.
I scrabble frantically at myself,
the dream was important, it
was! But to naught. For in doing so
I but stirred the wind to greater speeds,
and swept the sand away. I fall back,
head cushioned by folds in a wrinkled
blanket, and a pillow wet with tears.
I stare at the slowly spinning fan, air blowing
like a soft spring breeze, to still my racing
frantic heart, and dry unnoticed tears.
I stare at the spinning fan, unseeing, uncaring
of the gently comforting breeze. I know in my heart,
my secret sanctum, my quiet place, alone, that 'twas
no happy comedy, no carefree summer dance. A tragedy,
close at hand, is what had come this night. As I fall,
gently, down into the realms of sleep, I remember, a last fragment,
spinning aimlessly on the cusp of that void, forget. Flashing it
fell, but I caught a sight, a fleeting glimpse, of the tragedy held within.
Ashes floating, still lake beneath, and the muted, trembling sound,
of the womens stifled weeping. And the stars were all alight, shining coldly,
down from the black expanse, and a winter wind was blowing.