I walk and think of yesteryear,
as I wend these winding ways;
I loved the life, the youth of
Spring; yet I yearned for the
cold and the fleeting days.


My passion rose in the Summers
heat; a fire awoke within me. Yet
even as I reveled in that pagan
idyll, I pined for the cold and the
frost and silence.


I saw the sleeping trees of Autumn;
I gazed at the burning wood. But
even as my heart rejoiced in my
breast, I knew that it was not enough.


Now I walk in Winter-tide, and behold
the blackened trees. The crackle and snap
of dead leaves underfoot is like an
ever present symphony, in that pale winters
day. I pace under bough, under cloud,
under sky, and the wind loves me, and is
present at my side. Age lies on the sleeping
hills, and youth is far from me, as I wander
through the frosted halls, of that wondrous
Winter wood. And I looked out at the silent
land, frosted under weight of snow, and I
saw that it was good.

lying here listening, I think of many
things, as I listen to the soft sound of
the singing sands in the cool nights
autumn breeze.

I think of many things, in the time before
dawn, of loves lost and loves found, and
loves never to be had. I think of life and death,
and the whirring of cicadas, short lives filled
with sound, and wonder as to the mysteries of
the universe, and whether rain will come today.

Confused and lost in the morning chill, I wander
back to myself again, home from exile in the day dream lands; and I smile at the rising dawn,
illuminating the snow all around me, and my breath
frosts in the frozen air, as I gaze out at a frozen lake,
and wonder what will be.

the hearth crackled, the flames spat.
Warmth came from its dancing recesses,
and with it light to greet the shadows.
I curled in front of this ancient thing,
yet newborn through the strength of my
will. And I dozed before the flickering flames,
courting shadows as well as light. And my
heart was glad.

The Oak stands tall in the verdant spring,
his hair arrayed all about him, resplendent
in leafy splendor. Birds sing in his branches.

Vigor runs in his ancient veins, his boughs
heavy with seeded acorns; squirrels chatter in
his reaching limbs, arms stretched to the azure
heavens, in that time of swelling Summer.


The cool wind blows, in Autumn, in time. Leaves
flushed with crimson hue, fall to lie amid the great
oaks roots, and among the faded grass, sighing; The
fox hunts in the flaming wood.


The old oak stands firm, its branches swaying in the
cold winds of winter. Its boughs are bare, its stems are
black, the bear is sleeping, the days are short. Yet life
remains in the sleeping wood, buried deep, waiting for
the song of the laughing brook, for the robin and the
thrush; waiting for green Springs return.

The waves on the bracken shore,
wind on the heath. The seabirds
wheeling, far aloft, in grey and
stormy skies.

cliffs stern to the keening wind,
trees bent in the forceful gale;
scattered grass sways before
the tide.

Tall stone and weathered rock,
lying spread about its feet.
Young woman, standing, hair
tossed by the laughing wind, as it
passes on its way.

Patched cloak snapping, her frayed
hems snapping, eyes shining before the
storm, she stands tall in the shrieking gale,
yet sways as a willow, fair in the light of
the lingering sunset.

she stands, feet set, head high,
her eyes are bright in the fading
light, keen as she stands before the
storm; knowing it will come. Knowing
that it will pass her by.

The suns shining here,
the clouds are softly rolling,
to the winds gentle sighing,
as it passes the old oak by.

Oh the winds softly shushing,
as it passes the old oak by.

See a maiden there,
young and fair, a spring
in her step, and leaves in
her hair. See her stepping,
light as air, as she hangs the
washing from the old pine boughs;
her eyes are bright, her face without
care.

Oh, look and see that maiden there, with a
spring in her step and leaves in her hair.