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.

Notes....

Floating in a golden sea of sound....

Silver is the rain and the sighing of the flutes....

Drums for the thunder.

Trumpets sounding, with horns colliding, furious their clashing;

Lightning, hurled from the heavens.

So for music, and the soundings of the storm.

Silence, the void before the sound,
It hangs between the watchers, as they
stare  into the fire, burning in the center,
casting light in a myriad of shadows. And
all is still. Before them lie their instruments
nine, stringed and bowed, drums and fiddles.
They lift them to their sides as one, and all relax
as their hands caress their singing lovers. A breath,
drawn deep; released into the stillness of the night,
and the music sounds, as a cord too strained the tension
snaps, and the music soars on singing wings, waves of
light, of light and shadow, born on a wind of deepest
passion, out into the thrumming night, resonating with
their song. And so the music sounds, as the night awakes
and joins in their song.

On the clouds, moors of heaven,
skidding by, oh would to fly, as
a cloud in a rushing, driving gale.
Wind screaming, tearing, wearing,
lift the trees and raise the stones!
Topple moors and masts alike, and
drive the waves to foaming roar, on
the rocks of the wine-dark sea. On
the edge of the wine-dark sea. Driving,
driving, lifting, falling, speed my lover
home to me. Home to me, home to me,
upon the raging wine-dark sea. To me
across the empty sea.

Words,
imagery,
poignancy,
laconic
brevity,
extended
profundity,
rhetorical
brilliancy,

Poetry...
bringer of insight,
harbinger of wisdom,
manifestation of
wonder.

Quiet, gentle daughter,
for the day is beginning,
and we have yet to pray,
to the many thousand
beginnings come and gone,
lost to the faded past,
and to those that shine ethereal,
that light of change and promise,
of tomorrow's new day.

I wonder while I'm sitting here,
typing these words down, what
it'd be like to live, out, in the fresh
free air, walking, always walking,
the world my second home.

I wonder, as I sit here, typing
these words down, would it
be like my wanderings, lost in
imaginations dreams, a journey
of beauty, of hope, of spirituality,
of self discovery, of enlightenment...

I have been told that the grass is
never greener, here, or in furthest
Asia, that we are all one, a human
family, extended into the billions,
all having unique quirks and traits
between us, but all being more or
less the same, for all that. That we
all are truly, one. And I think that
that is true.

I want to know what it is like,
to feel what they feel, to see
what they see, to walk among
them, to drown in the torrents
of noise and smell and color,
to bathe in a sea of silence, alone
but for myself, wandering
awestruck, and the whispering of
the leaves in a gentle breeze..

I want to know..I have to.
I need to see, to feel, to hear,
to love..

I gotta go. I gotta go.
that's all.

In summer,
I used to run, and
curse the heat. And swim
in the cool waters of the pond.
No more.
For the colder months are coming in,
and winters knocking on the door,
with summer shuffling out the
back. And I welcome old
winter in.

One morning fair, in the month of may,
I awoke afresh and laughed,
for it seemed to me that the time
had come, for a grand adventure,
and a merry day.

I ran down the creaking steps,
down the long and welcoming
stair, and when I came to stair-
wells end, I winded stopped to
rest.

But soon I rose and started on,
running on again, and running
now more temperately, I came
to the store apace.

I stocked my pack with bread
and butter, an apple and some
cheese, and as a welcome
afterthought, I added in some
bees.

I ran out the oaken door,
I ran across the lawn,
and entered in the beechen
woods, full flowered in
Kindly spring.

And I ran and sang, and lost
my way, all through that
laughing, gladden day, and
when at last I ventured home,
my parents were justly, quite
distraught.

But I lay in my bed, and smiled
and sang gladly in my heart,
for though to bed without
supper I'd gone, and my belly
was rumbling sore, I'd gone on a
merry, grand adventure,
and I'd had a merry day.

Words, sharp as knives in a skillful hand,
turn soft as a child's quilt, when spoken in tones of love.
Words, the expressions of ourselves, the strings that link us, bind
us, hold us, change us. Words, thought incarnate.
And yet, at times they fall short, inadequate to capture the
glory of the moment, or the horror.
This a sorrow, and a comfort,
Twofold as words may be.

I once sat beneath an oak, in that
golden time before the sunset,
before the light fades to the ruddy
orange that marks the beginning
of the dying of the sun.

I saw a leaf, large, green light shining
softly through, to tinge the ground an
emerald hue. A wind rose in the flaming
west, rising high on thermal tides, and
came sighing down, down into the valley,
at last to the tree, to the leaves, and to me.

The wind struck the rooted oak, set the
limbs all to swaying, set the swaying
grasses sighing. I watched the leaf in its
great-hearted struggle, flailing against the
pull of the swift flowing breeze.

Distraught I watched as its stem was
pulled taught, and often my breath
caught in my throat, as my eyes sure
convinced me of its imminent leave.
Yet all in vain.

For at last the wind grew weary of
its voice, and ceased its sighing
through those low rolling hills. And
all was quiet, there in the valley, and I
smiled, and was calm, and the world
was content.

What is it, oh you
Of the yearning mind,
Of the wide soul, and
The wounded heart
Laid bare, what is it
That pierces, that
Cracks the buried
Stone, that draws life
Up out of the earth,
And yet sustains it, crown
Tall in the anchored earth?
Listen now, O you man,
You woman, child,
Bearers of the flame
Of the world,
When the life of man
And the life of tree,
Both are seen embodied
Of the ecstasy of the
Now-In-Life, when
Death is counted friend
And received in honor,
And not sought, or hastened,
When the enemy of my
Heart is my enemy and yet
My friend, and love is
Seen in all, and recognized;
Then will we have peace,
The world within the world;
And from peace love,
And joy.

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?

The winds blow, carrying spice and sand and death from the desert, water from the forests, ice from the mountains, fire from the lands of
fire, air from everywhere, and from itself. Stand one day in a high place,
Witt the wind all about you, and none else there but you, and if you listen, you may here secrets whispered to you, on the breath of the wind,
secrets many, and yours among them, for the wind knows all things, and it sees all, forgets nothing.

Joy, profoundest of
sensations! Ah! To be
lifted on the crest of
surging bliss, to be
graced with the comfort
of quiet euphoria, come
after a day spent in labor,
and finding the simple
comforts of home awaiting.
Joy, profoundest of
sensations!

What is the worth of a good mans life?
Of his death?
What can be said to be worth the dying gasp of
a man of his word?

No more and no less than the cause of his death.

For in that lies the potential of action  and change,
And the means to touch fate and turn it.


In this lies the worth of his death, as it is in all mens who will it to be so.

I have lived on this site for many years now, breathing poetry in, breathing poetry out; infusing the wonderful blend of thoughts and ideas, of profundities, comic absurdities, the peace of serenity, achieved in few words, poignant, vast, with my own, my own thoughts, loves, fears, conceptions of beauty, and my reality of what is ugly, and what is not. You know me only as a poet, an identity obscured by intent, lost, one among millions, in the vast web of energy that connects us, empowers us, gives us the tools to do anything, and at the same time, all too often, takes away the will to do anything at all, to emerge from its deep, narrow pool, and observe the endless ocean that is life, that surrounds us, unheeded, we on our little islands, lost in the trap of our own design. I am a poet, one who wishes only to express, and to feel, to influence others, to help them on their way, and be aided in turn, when the world seems darkest, and the temptation of the trap seems sure, the way of quick release. I am a poet, and that is all I am, and all, deep down, that I ever shall be; and I am content. For to be a poet, one who is at the core of his being connected to an other, whether that other be nature, a person, humanity, or even the depths of ones inner self, and the secrets contained therein; or a hundred thousand more, one is connected. And that, whether tragic or joyous, comic, or serene, is the greatest gift one can hold, and although it may be gained in later life, never will those who have gained it thus experience the depth of feeling as those who were at birth endowed with it, that most heavenly of gifts. I am a poet, as are you. Let us make something wonderful, together, and in time, perhaps, we may heal the world of its sorrows, and bring joy, where before there was despair, and light, where once there was darkness.

Winged flight;
souls yearning.
Journey
into the far
places, into the
deep places,
of the sacred
heart; myself
but one
of many.

I sit in front of the fire and think, of olden
days, of yore. Of those moments which, by
virtue of their power, still shine golden, or
shimmer darkly, like ebony in a pool in the
dying light, out of the mists of age and forget-
fullness, this both a blessing and a curse, to one
who has lived so long as I. For I have seen many
triumphs and celebrations, and many more defeats
and fruitless victories, these like the long dark shadow
stretching out from the pillar of my accomplishments.
This pillar is the anchor of my life; without it, I would be
lost in the sea of my own wretched failures. And yet,
still, from my vantage point atop that shining monument
that enshrines all that was, is, and will be good in my life, still
the shadow grows, along with the pillar itself, for though
I have passed that point of sweet and soaring ****** at the
epitome of my life, and have long since begun the descending
spiral towards the grave, I am not yet dead. And yet, even as my pillar grows, so does my shadow, and its length grows longer as my years increase, and the memory of past failures compound one upon the other, until they are stretched far out to the distant horizon, and have filled it with darkness and shadows, for the sun is low, as my age ascends, and so the shadows lengthen. And yet. Through all of this, of the pain of my failures, of the tragedies of my defeats, of the defeats of others who were close to my heart, peace is with me, and I have no fear, and I am happy, and I give of myself to others, and expecting nothing, receive all, for the gratitude and happiness of others in response to ones generosity and love, is the greatest reward that one may hope to attain.
For I do not dwell only in the past, but in the present, and do not impose worry and fear upon my soul through vain speculations of what the future may bring, and instead live in the present, and think on the past, and act according to what I believe to be right, before the eyes of man, and the eyes of God. And all is right with me, and I am happy, and as I sit here before the hearth, the fire leaping merrily, and crackling like a thousand distant fireworks, I smile, and sink softly into sleep.

I looked, once,
up into a sky
grey, and milky
white. My mind
spun along
trails of
unconscious
thought,
brief and fleeting
as the zephyr
that occasionally
brushed my face..
my eyes slid shut,
and my lips
curved, into
the smallest of
smiles, as I sat
there, still, empty
...calm, and content,
as the gentle
breath of the
west ruffled
my hair,
gently, and
from my fingers,
dropped a
band of gold,
down, into
the abyss below...
down, as I
stand, and
turning,
walk away
from that place,
and I am
happy,
as I go,
leaving
that
memory of
love,
that place
of
beginnings,
and of
ends,
softly,
as we part,
equals, the
silence,
and I.
At last.
At last...

What happens when two lovers meet, twine hand in hand, gaze spellbound into the endless depth of the others eyes, and wishes the moment to last forever? What happens when they kiss, star crossed lovers, bound by love and tragic fate, to part in grief and bitter tears, Their screams echoing up to starry heavens, to fall at last, unheard, unsung, a tragic echo of bitter grief and the scream of tortured hearts, ripped apart, to die in pain and bitter age. White hair streaming, tears falling, he falls at last, succumbs to Time and tragic fate, dies at last, beneath the stars and pale moon, a tragedy for ages gone, A single drop in that endless sea of grief and bitter pain, watered by a constant rain, of broken lives and shattered dreams. For this is life, a bitter gulf, penance for some ancient crime, and though beauty lies in fleeting spaces, rainbows shining, leaves set sighing, by the fragrant breath of an autumn breeze, They are but glimpses, shadows of what we had, for all shall fail and pass away, and the days shall be filled with pain and bitter tears, from now until the end of time. For after all, Autumn is a time of dying.

The fire blazes, crackles and snaps,
the women dance around its light,
while the men around, in the dark-
ling shadows, beat the drums to the
song of life.

Flutes sigh their trilling songs,
and strings dance and thrum and
blur, as the fiddle plays its wild
abandon, out, into the currents of
the night.

The wild boar is caught and spit,
its dripping fat, the flames do lick,
and now the call to feast and song,
to mead and meat and legend tall,
under the stars and the hunters
moon!

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.

I am standing,
at once in place,
at once afar,
thinking, love,
my swift flown
dove, I am
thinking thoughts
of you, down by the
rivers edge, where the
waters ran so blue, and the
Stars twinkled down like
angels in the heavens,
when we kissed, that first
time, so near a time, and yet
so far away. I am thinking, love,
my dearest flower, while the wind
comes blowing coldly,
and the mist comes slowly rising,
I am thinking thoughts of you.

What is life, but the ending of
death? Long pain and fleeting joys,
to be taken away at the Final Dark.

Long pain with no beginning,
joy fast, far, and fleeting.
Life a stretch of joys and
sorrows, Death a release to
soft tomorrows.

Endless Cycle.

I saw her there, standing in the shade
of a thicket; birch trees in the failing
Autumn. The long grass caressed her;
the wind stirred her hair. Lovely she, in
the failing Autumn, there, on the cusp of
winter. Lightning; storm on the horizon.
Green eyes lifted to catch the rain, falling,
there in the nearing distance. She breathes
in, out, her eyes fall closed as she tastes the
air; rain and soil, sunbaked in the past heat of
the noontime. Grass, wafting upwards. The
trees stir; the shadows of the leaves flit across
her form, face uplifted to the rising storm. Her
raiment snaps, back and forth; the winds uprising,
howling forerunner of the coming storm. Her hair
streams back, a midnight pennant, running out all
behind her. The roaring of the winds upsurges in its
splendor, its howling crescendo reached at last; The trees
bend, backwards in the gale, graceful in their dying,
leaves torn and scattered, out among the plains, and
across the rippling grasses, soaring in the ecstasy of
the winds. She stands, there, in the moment before the
storm, straight she is, and tall, swaying as the trees wherein
she stands, pale in the twilight. The wind howls in wanton
abandon, wild and glorious; rain strikes the waiting earth,
the grass bends in homage, down before the fury of the torrent
descending.
The lightning cracks in the darkling sky,
the thunder roars in violent time; the storm falls
in the failing Autumn; darkness comes
in the clouds obscurity, ebon in the raging heavens,
and all was lost there, save the wind, and the rain,
and the darkness of the storm.

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.

Floating...
lost,
within the multicolored
fragments
of consciousness,
seeds of life
and of all
creation,
everywhere...
my mind a spinning
vortex, all
thought a
myriad
of turbulent
confusions...
I am lost,
within
myself.
And it is good.

An old house sits in the deep-wood heart
of the ancient forest-fen.

It's crumbling stones fall farther 'eryday into
the appointed state of sad decay.

But why?! For does not the hope of man rest
upon 'ery brick atop another, on 'ery cottage,
'ery palace, 'ery shack in misty glen?

For these are the  bricks of civilization, my dearest
heart.

So shore up the trembling walls, prop up the
rotting rafters! For do we not, in this one act,
prop up our tradition, our civilization, nay
very lives of the People?

But no. For see the climbing vines, creeping insidiously,
through the mossy stone wall? See the mildew on the rafter
beams, the fungi on the hearth?

We all go to the ground, whether man or beast, or stick
or stone. Whether tree or shrub or mistletoe, we all go
back to the ground.

I am old, my sweet, and I fear the day's not far,
when my lids slide closed,(or don't, who knows?)
and I'm walking Deaths cold halls.

I beg you Rose, my sweetest flower, don't put
me in the stone. Just bury me the old fashioned
way, in dirt and rotting leaves.

For I couldn't bear, to be buried there, in the cold
And crumbling stone.

"From dust I came, and to dust I shall go, at the end of things,
or at least, at the end of me."

The crying notes tear my soul, the wailing of babes
crying without comfort, abandoned and alone on the
desolate emptiness of the plain imagined, stretching on
into emptiness and infinity, while the plaintive shrieks
of the dying infants, innocent in this world of simplicities,
life and death, heat and frost, summer and winter, kindness
and cruelty, they rise in the thin air, cutting across the silence
like jagged knives, while the demons scream in the tortured
vaults of hell, the spirits condemned groaning in their agony,
while above the vultures circle, lowering, lowering, down into
the screams of the innocent, newly cast onto the flat plain of
mortality and death, down, their great wings cutting off the sun
as their claws reach down, down to rend and grasp and tear and
clutch; to spill the fresh blood to gush and stream, and feed the hunger
of the earth, beaks rising and falling and rising again, rising and falling,
till there is nothing. Nothing, and nothing and nothing and nothing!!
And yet. Though visions such as these terror my thoughts and whisper
to me in my dreams of the inevitability of death and of the abundance of
pain, of the rightness of grief, yet I continue and yet am I strong, unbroken
by myself, unbowed by myself. And yet. The walls are crumbling. Stones
fall to be devoured by the empty night, while the eroding wind of pain tears
through my mind and casts down the towers of impregnability while the wall
groans and buckles. Soon it will fall. The pain will become reality, blood will
spill out from the black depths of my mind to stain the world, and the vultures will
begin to circle, to fall, to tear. To ****. I will fall. Unless I contain these blasphemies of
thought, these profanities of my mind, I will fall. And death will claim me, and cast
me screaming into the black void of the empty night. And I will cease. That is all.

The tall grass waving,
leaves sighing, sun shining.
Silence crowns the lonely hill,
and life moves slowly, calmly on,
while peace abides between the
cracks, in the ancient mossy stones.
In the old and silent stones.

The leaves have fallen, the trees are bare,
snow is falling, gently swirling, in this Winters wind.
The birds are silent, the air is still, no song to lift a sluggish eye, or warm a frozen soul. I walk alone through silent streets, braving the snow clad wind, and the icy winters chill. I walk, breath frosting out in icy patterns, crystallized, hanging there, for fleeting moments, before they fall and float away, borne away by a gentle breeze, an icy touch of soft farewell. The leaves are spinning, ahead, behind. I walk through, scattering the subtle patterns of wind and leaves, to create a swirling maelstrom of snow and wind, left to find their way in the evening dark of winters day. I see her face, in the brittle leaves twisting in the breeze, and in the icy snow drifts, piled against a winters tree, features soft and crystalline, illusion drifting from place to place, born along by winters breeze. I watch her, unseeing eyes shifting, seemingly, from place to place, movement of these subtle snows. I watch her, numb, my eyes pinned to that illusion of wind and snow, a subtle torture, amusement for the gods delight. I watch her, hands straying, falling, reaching, questing fingers searching, finding, clasp that chill uncaring steel. I raise my hand, white and cold with winters frost. I see her. I know her. I am lost in this winters chill, grief and pain numbing me, stilling me, my heart is cold inside my chest. Fingers white, frozen, hand numb, rises, cold steel shining in frosty light. I am frozen, still, eyes fixed on shifting snows, her face still, sightless eyes hold mine, transfixing me in frozen space, eternity held in sightless eyes. I see her. I see her. I....know...her. She smiles gently, eyes soft on mine, black hair stirring in gentle breeze. I........see.......her. She sees me. She sees me. I close my eyes. I know her. I.............know.........I see..........I see her sanding there, pale, smile frozen on icy face. Waiting  for me, alone, cold with the chill of uncounted winters. Waiting for me. I go. Goodbye..........I.........am.........going..........My frozen heart waits beyond, still, numb,....waiting. I am going. I am filled with love and loss and grief and pain. I am going. Do not.....mourn.....do not.....grieve.....I am going, the winters lie heavily, a frozen weight on bleeding shoulders. I am going. do not.......mourn me, for I go to peace and a frozen heart.

I rest beneath the spreading bows,
an oak, ancient in in life, in the living
earth, wise in the ways of growing. Wheat
surrounds us, I and the tree, together an island
amid the shifting gold, swaying in a gentle breeze,
born of the hazy south, warm and kind. The sun shines
down, as it sinks to meet the flat horizon, and fall beneath
the world. Clouds streak the sky, as the blue yields to the gold
of sunset. The birds are singing. And I wake, to behold the dawn,
and I hear the birds singing, as they too wake with the light.

I stare, down into the
indigo darkness of the
sea. Land is far from me,
and horizons darken with the
mass of storms. Alone I wander,
and land is far from me, alone
in the gloam with the sky and the
sea. Light shining in the darkling
depths, heralds of the raven night,
a storm is brewing and day is gone,
and land is far from me.

I wander on.

I walk through the pouring rain, wind howling at my face, tearing, my hair blows in the wind. The rain streams down my youthful face, aged now, with grief and pain, rain like tears, falls from empty sky. I walk through twilit streets, dim with mist and rain, and I wander, lost in daylight dreams, a haze of visions, enshrouding me, embracing me....her touch soft on my cheek, her gaze gentle, and yet strong, helping me, guiding me out of the howling storms of my inner mind, her whisper warm against my ear, her tears hot, mix with mine, as she whispers, her words full of love and quiet strength, even as she weeps, quiet tears. I fall into dark oblivion, lulled by her caring words, and the soft and gentle sounds of her weeping. I am walking. That, a distant memory, gone, shattered into a million shards of brightest glass, her screams mingle with mine, her body cold on empty street, the wind howls, leaves whipping past my pale face. I hold her, tears streaming, falling, her life bleeding out, trickling, slowing....she draws in a ragged breath, tongue poised for words, eyes desperate, pleading. She dies, breath sighing, slipping, back, into that cruel Autumnal world. I fall, head cradled against her chilling breast, blood slowing now, stopping. She is cold against me. I scream, world uncaring, carries on, and I alone, agony cold in my chest, I fall into the deepest black, her screams echoing after me, down into the dark of sleep. I walk, the rain pours down, the wind cuts me, chills me, dank hair falling, I walk alone, and empty, of life of love, of joy of peace.
I walk, and that empty pain, bitter as the dregs of cheapest wine, roars up, a storm once held in check by her love and gentle tears, strengthened by newer loss and fresher pain, it wells up, and I scream, ragged and tearing. I fall, knees scraping, stones stabbing, mud and leaves pulling, reaching, for my weary soul. I weep for pain and bitter grief, the storms roaring, within, without. I look up at cloudy sky, grey and empty, rain falling like bitter tears. I fall, limbs failing, heart quailing, beneath the empty, bitter pain. I lie here, amidst the mud and leaves, rain whipping past, wind screaming, I lie, consumed at last, by grief, cold fingers squeezing my screaming heart. I lie here, and wait for death, and my beloveds gentle tears.

I sit, staring, all around me
darkness, the shadows of the
night lurk about me, while
the soft sighs of the spirits
of the abyss, of darkness,
of death, of despair, swirl
around me, finding their way
into the depths of my heart,
of my soul...plunging me into
nothingness, and drawing a
grey veil over my eyes...I wander,
lost, and alone...and all is ashes,
and dust, upon the winds and
tides of the currents of Time...
and I am lost..

I waltz across the tiled floor,
lit by a thousand lamps,
and the chandelier above.

Gold between them, those tiles,
black and white, they chime as
you dance, your hem of lace spinning
as you twirl, a fantasy made incarnate,
if only in the realm of Dreams.

I spin you low, I lift you high, your
face shining, eyes bright with laughter,
wide with joy.

We dance, back and forth, across gleaming
tiled floor, graceful as a pair of swans,
one black one white, spinning slowly
across the floor.

And then faster! We leap, we spin
we twirl in each others arms, gazes locked
feet moving unguided, dancing, spinning!
We pant and we laugh and we leap, and we
swoop, like the dance of swallows in the
living, laughing, dancing time of Spring.

And we dance. And all to the hidden
music of a thousand violins, a thousand
flutes, a hundred cellos, a symphony to
reach the angels in their singing and
set them all to listening in awe and wonder
of the power and grace and joy of the music
of man.


And we dance. But at at last the music
slows, softens, falls away, slowly, gently,
and we, spinning, spinning, slowly,
softly fall away. Our hands reluctant part,
our feet slow and are still, ceasing their
complex patterns of step in and step out,
of the leap and the twirl, of the flying spring
and the swooping fall. At last our feet are still.

And we part.
I watch her go, fading, fading.

And I realize it was all a dream.

Many scoff when they hear of
things, said or done too often
for their palate. But the power
of the act lies not in repetition,
or its absence, but in the act
itself, whether it be performed
once, or a thousand, thousand
times, for as long as there is one
among the throng who is willing
to open himself once more to
wonder, the power of the act will
continue, forever, and for eternity.