I wander, lost. Am I a spirit,
to wander so, sad and lonely,
cut off from the roiling, chaotic,
masses of humanity, and set to
wander, adrift in a brilliant sea,
vivid colors clashing always,
with the ever present void of
Infinity?

Love; thorn
in the brier
strand;
hypodermic
in its kisses'
sting-
the breath
of life in
the brittle
womb;
soft succor,
the shoots of
Spring: Peace
in the needles
bite.

Love,

a childs sigh, soft in innocence.
the sun on the heads of the lilies
in the field, the wind in the trees.

Joy,

laughter, high in the morning, low
in the evening. Her hair in the sunset,
ablaze with reflected glory, her eyes,
shining in the light of suns dying; mien
of angels.

Sorrow,

sobs in the stillness of the deepest
night. eyes red rimmed in the
morning light. the sound of a lock
softly clicking; tears on the threshold.

The man strides to the marching
drums, blood hot for the boiling
fray, beside him marches kin and
friends, comrades all for the ******
fray. On roll the marching drums, pipes
skirl and trumpets bray, all to the sound
of stomping boots, all to the waiting
fray.


Now, hark to the trumpets sound,
loud and clear in the morning air,
foemen sighted, foemen there! Out
from the town exceeding fair. Now
comes the faster beat, and comes the
sound of running feet, as men roar with
joy and fear as they rush headlong in
the morning clear, as they run to the
speeding fray.


The man lies on the trampled ground,
and listens to the wrenching sound of
the groans and screams of tortured men,
dying there, on the ****** ground.


Away above, beyond the clouds, and over
the buzzards circling, there through a shining
rent, the man near death a vision sees; an eagle
high, balancing, above the fates of Lords and
men. As his dying breath escapes his lips, and
darkness comes to take him home, the man
hears a distant sound; the eagle calling down
farewell, down to the twisted, ****** fell,
above the loud, tumultuous roar of men
survived from the ****** fray, crying all in
joyous voices, "Victory! Victory!"

Bittersweet the memory.

The waves lapped the shore
of those gently rolling hills
of sand, stretching out to the
far horizon. Gulls circled,
high above me, their plaintive
calls reflective, of the grey of
the morning, and the grey of
my heart.

Grass waving, green on the hillside.
Sunflowers sighing, faces turned to
the light, yearning always. Leaves,
and the grace of the boughs, dancing
in the wind; the trunk is still, standing
tall, as a pillar in the dappled green.
Rain. Rain for the lakes and the trees and
the ponds. Rain for man, and for the flowers,
and for the robin bird, there upon its
perch. Rain and the light of day. A Break in
the clouds. Light shattered, sent in an
arch of shimmering color, and day birds
singing, while light in golden shafts returns,
to grace the patterned forest floor, and to kiss
the waving sunflowers, and the blades of
shining grass.

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.

Grey dawns the morning cold; dew
gathers on the mould. while robins sing
in freshen voices, and water runs in the
swift-water way, in the mornings lovely
cold.

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?

Why is it that every time I leave the room, I hear
the candles flickering? You all whispering, your breath
fluttering, butterflies of lies and deceit, they in their eloquent
artifice, they are fluttering the candles, causing them too to whisper,
Voices of smoke and flame, and human tongues, whispering that most hurtful
sound, a trusted friend, hissing through a liars teeth.

A glade in a wood,
gloaming in the
twilight. The scents
of nightflowers, subtle
and disturbing, contriving
to surround us in
heady confusion, as
we stumble through
paths enchanted, there,
in the shimmering
moonlight. There, as we
walk our ways, under
stars, under moon, in
the darkling gloom.

Beyond thoughts
use is the power of
her beauty; for my
soul is caught in
the sight of her, and
my heart in
its turn.

Her eyes
like long tapered
leaves, like vessels
sharply prowed,
subtle in their weight
and depth of
cognizance-
twin edged
they gleam,
and knowledge
is in them.

And her voice!
As the sounds of
growing things and
the cello's weaving
her words are song
and her song the
symphony.

Like the stone rippling
and a cat content,
like the sweet bell
when hearts are
wearied.

Beauty!

For thou, and thou
alone
I contend.

An Angel soaring, flying,
purpose divine lights his eyes.
Glowing, full of Holy Purpose,
wings spread, black and white,
he flies, black hair streaming,
pale face glowing, eyes alight
with the power of the Almighty,
God, who sits in Heaven, and so
watches over his faithful, men
and women who have taken into
their hearts the glory, light, and
love, that is He.

An Angel soars, coming to Earth,
Gods purest creation, landing, grassy
knoll alive with his touch, presence
spreading, flowing, the flowers raise
their heads, the leaves unfurl, to the
light and glory of the presence of
God, his might and glory flowing
from the Angel and out, Life and Light
pouring out, Gods first creation, testament
and reminder, to the power and glory of
God.

And the waters flowing, pure, cleansed of
taint, and vile substance, flow on, bringing
a tide of Life, rejuvenating flow, power springing
from the smallest finger of the Hand of God.

The Angel bows, the light recedes, night returns,
stars shining, their light beacons, white fire, to light
the dark vaults of Heaven.

And then, in a great surge of power and holy light,
he is gone, gone back to his Fathers Halls in the
Eternal Paradise of Light and Love that is Heaven.

The flowers bow their heads in sleep, the leaves
close upon their limbs, the quiet of night once
again envelops the sleeping world, and wraps all
in a soft shroud of darkness.

There is the smell of Jasmine in the air, the
leaves sigh on the standing trees, a night wind
to stir the air, the scent of salt upon its wings,
an ocean tang, exotic, and yet familiar, as a
dreamer encounters substance of a half
remembered dream, vivid in the waking world,
and wonders, at this feeling, sublime in its
familiarity, wonderful, in its quality of exotic
strangeness, the substance of dream
intruding on the daylight world, subtle and
yet bold, a seeming figment of the
sleeping mind, made real, in the light of day.

And so this dream, wonderful, in its glory
and light, may intrude in subtle ways into
the internal fabric of your everyday life,
reminder of the glory and power and light
and love, of the Almighty, eternal in his
undying light.

It has been said, by some,
by many, that in time the
hopes and dreams, the
pain, all cheap and chil-
dish loves, the aches of
their passing,

all will fade,
and become but photographs,
blurred memories, last,
of a bygone age,
remnants to be lost,
and forgotten, in
the passing of
Time.

Perhaps this is so.
But if truly there be
a thing called end,
a time called respite,
called peace...these
are to my mind more
to the like of fantasy,
of that which occurs in
others, and never in
oneself, than not.

But I will not give up my
Hope, nor lose utterly
that dream of Emptiness,
that Vision of Peace, held so,
there, in my heart.

For truth, in all times,
and for forever,
all hope is dream,
and all dream
possesses the power
to be called reality.

conflict is eternal, present, real.
To attain peace is not to erase
conflict, but to accept it, not to
embrace your enemy as a friend,
but to accept that he is as he is, ****
him, and move on.

Life,
fled from you.
Death ousted you,
Driven you from the the
temple of the flesh which was
yours. Spirit flown, you lie there still,
unknowing of the tears all around you, as
they cede you to the grave, and so to death and
memory. And yet on your face a peace resides, profound
in its quiet repose, a sign perhaps from beyond the grave, that
you have found peace at the end.

Goodbye, Grandfather,

Rest in peace.

I sleep, in jeweled fragments,
alone, but for the
whispers of my soul.

They speak to me of
love, of loss, of
sorrow, and of the
peril of joy,
unchecked.

They speak to me
of beginnings,
and of endings,
of discovery,
and of peace.

They speak to me
of the promise of
the morning,
of absence,
and of silence.

They speak of love...
of love, and
of joys
beginning,
anew
in my heart.

They speak to me
of many things,
of many things,
and one: and
that, to let go
my heart,
to let go my love,
and all its promise..
to let go,
and begin the search
once more.

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

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

Quiet. It is so very quiet.
The sound, not quite silence.
Rather, like a heavy snow fall,
it adds to the hushed quiet, and
so creates a larger, deeper silence,
vast as an icy sea, small as a single
snowflake, falling from a cloudy
sky.

The rage that's in me is hard to describe.
Welling up, it roars inside, and whispers
softly in my ear, " to think's a common
innocent deed, the act of cowards, of fools
Of folly, to act's a different sort of thing,
a major step, a greater pact, 'tween you
and the devil down below. Act I say, and
take the prize, **** for glory, **** for greed,
take you what is rightfully yours, and
claim her hand forevermore."

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

I wake in bed, 'neath twisted sheets,
full throated sings the thrush
and with it, the scrape of knotted
twigs, scratching at my window-pane,
which doubtless served to bring me
up, from that release of dreamless
sleep.

I turn my head upon the pillow,
hoist me up the patchwork quilt,
but struggle how I may in lust
of the peerless prize of sleeps
recapture, I end, as well perhaps,
I might have known, with naught
to show but bated breath, and rest
lost, in want recalled.

Throwing off the strangling sheets,
pushing back the weighted quilt,
I rise, abandon hope of sleep,
shiver, in the morning's chill;
the dawns of Spring as
Winters days.

I move to light a candle,
watch the flickering flames arise,
draw up a chair to the window,
set the candle at my side. I
sit there, dreaming wakeful,
mind weary, gone, astray, as
the minutes pass in silence,
and the hours slip away.

At length, as long I lie there,
reclined in soulful apathy,
lost in boundless sympathy
as to the state of self and Being,
I rouse myself, and stir, eyes
red, begrimed and straining,
for I sense a subtle lessening,
in the aura of the dark.

Then at last, as I sit watching,
I and the herald thrush, at
last, oh long awaited! the
gleam of the dawning Sun.
I rise and gaze in gladness,
tears welling at the brim,
for it seems to me I never saw
more splendid a sight than
this; sublime, celestial
vision, balm to my hearts
desire.

I move towards the door,
all weariness forgotten,
push back the latch and
turn, forward in the
lambent dawn.
I stand amidst the sunlight,
golden gleam effulgent,
and all the dew-drops
glittering, resplendent in
the shine.

I marvel to myself in awe,
at the magnitude of
the world, as if the
colors' cool irradiance,
or the fragrance of
the vernal dawn,
were not but seeming
new, but were, verily
new-made in glory,
set to lighten paradise,
for the coming of
Thoughts firstborn.

I breathe deep, in and out.
Thoughts clear I gaze,
out still, amidst the reaching
light, yearning ever to glimpse,
into the heart of the Sun,
and see there, as I know I
shall, the patterns of eternity,
Imprinted upon my eyes
and memory, full-writ
in endless time, before descends
the final black.

At last, I sit, back straight,
against the old and ivied wall.
Eyes farseeing, gaze lost,
beyond the reach of mind
and men, I waver not, from
that point of infinity, lost to
the horizon, and yet near,
so near...I am lost, adrift,
in a golden sea of light,
and of nothingness,
which is everything,
and eternity.

Lost, amidst the bright expanse;
peace, in endless change.

And I sleep, amidst the
dawning light, at last,
in blissful solitude;
and my soul is far,
and gone from me,
gone, within the fractals
of infinity, and in the
sempiternity of joy,
and of endless light;
for a moment,
and for forever,
in Time.

I wonder, dreaming, lost in the
twist, in the curve of the road,
in the arching endlessness of
times eternity, and we trapped
just a little behind the center,
able to glance before, but not
beyond; I wonder then, when
lost in sleep, what peace may
I find, in living life, what joy
among such twisted lies.
I think of the lily, of the holly
tree, of Christmases, and
laughter free, but ever after
thinking thus, my thoughts
turn always to the empty
dark, to the thorn, to the
adder, to the darker parts.
What joy for me, when cursed
to think, to wander in
places cold and bleak,
led, abandoned, my nature
conflicted, I yearn for the
light, I lust for the dark.
I wonder now, thinking so,
what use there be in striving
so, in knowledge that mine
is a lesser struggle, a paltry
thing, devoid of sorrow;
and yet I feel it, through
and through, I rage at the
dark, I weep at the light,
petulant, true, as a child
grown fat, grown full
in the luxury of an easy
life.

What use, you say?
Why simply this, that
life is short, yet mine new
begun, and though short
it be, yet long mayhap,
I may run in the grass,
and forget my sorrow;
or if, indeed, my life is
marked, my fate be cast
for a darker lot, a shadowed
play, a twisted plot, then
hope there is, if hope it
be, that sorrows
undreamed of may yet
find me, and I may then
in bitter relief, say then
in truth: That though
mine before was an
easy life, a spring devoid
of pain, of strife, that
now at last I have joined
the ranks, of those
who have drunk of
the vinegar of life, and
found it bitter, to the
very dregs.

I look back, see, and regret.
so much of darkness, so much of
bitterness, of despair, of death, of the
chill of being forgotten for ever and ever
and ever..... I look back and wish. Wish upon
the fading star, the falling moon, the setting sun,
wish that I had not taken so of the darker pleasures,
had not indulged this passion for words of pain,
had not opened the door for gentle melancholy.
Wistfully do I weep, for the grief around the corner,
and for the quiet breath of silent death, as he steals
away the precious life, an old man dying, taken at last,
leaves as nothing, leaving nothing, taking naught save
sad regret, leaving naught save life gone wasted.
Bitterly do I weep, deep in the silent tomb of
myself, and wish that I had taken a little of the light
before it was too late, leaving naught but sad regret,
and bottles at the door.

To her side I laughing fell,
there in the violets, and in
the warmth of summers noon.
Love burned in my straining
breast; light reflected in the beauty
of her smile. We ran in that pagan
sunlit idyll; Life, the race and the
scented joy, as we ran in the grass,
in the light, and in laughter. Lovely, she,
in sunlit grace. Our joy the limit of
life and sky.

Still lovely, she, in death, as in life.
Lovely still, as she is laid to her rest,
down among lilies and lilacs and silk,
and amidst the tears of the living, bereft
in their joy, of the life and the youth and
the laughter that was she. I cry out in a
broken voice, "Allele! Remember the joy
and the summer and the wind in the trees!
Remember the long days laughing in the
shade of the oak, of the leaves and the
breeze and the waterfall splashing! Go not
softly into the dark tomorrow. Take your life
with you. Do not end in the darkness, alone,
in the darkness." Whispered the last, voice rough
in sorrow. And I wept, there, in the summers starlit
dark.

I sit and think, of times that there were,
Of wind sighing in the leaves, and
The sunlight golden on her hair.

I look back, through the mists of time,
and I see the starlight in her eyes,
reflected brighter than the non-existent
moon.

I look back, on times of yore, and see there
a wall, old and crumbling, darkness seeping
in to poison life and joy, with the quiet sorrow
of half remembered pain.

I see her there, remembrance, turned cold and bitter,
Lies beyond those frozen gates.

They tell me to leave her, to go, to forget...
but how, when we stood there, her voice
smooth and quiet as liquid moonlight.
How, when I played for her, her tears
as shining jewels, precious, in their transparent
light.


How, when her voice, turned sharp and bitter
as broken glass, tore at my soul, how, when her voice,
broken now, and hoarse with the force of her screams,
whispered to me as she lay in my arms, blood red as holly,
warm and terrible as remembered love, remembered folly.

How, when she asked if I loved her, still, at the end of things,
even as her life drained from her, and her heart slowed its weary
work, and stilled beneath her pale breast?

How, when she had to ask, when she should have
known, the answer always...yes and yes.

I stand alone, feet bare, at precipices' edge.
I feel the wind, a gentle embrace, breathy,
Infinite caress, enveloping my soul in the
Eternity of acceptance. Irises shut, against
the gentle piercing of dawns red-gold,
tender radiance, I gaze into the
kaleidoscopic configurations of Eternity,
and see all, in dazzling brightness.

the winds caress comes now, softly, soft,
as the reverent touchings of the Lovers,
gentle in their adoration, lost in their worship,
of love, of life, of each other..

I inhale, slowly, the air warm and strange,
and infinitely tender, alive in itself,
and in its love of everything, of the world,
and of the multicolored ecstasies' of
Eternity...

I breathe, and, slowly, I grow, expanding
outwards, encompassing everything, and
inwards, becoming nothing...and I discover
the learnings of my secret heart..

I breathe...and I release, everything..
softly, I dissipate, my body released,
become one with the world; with the air,
with the stone, with earth, with life,
with love...

I remain there, awhile longer, existing in
peace, and in the love of spirit...I breathe,
deeply, once.  I open my eyes...and see
my face, there before me, smiling, out of
a cracked, and broken mirror; and there
is the light of Eternity in my skin, in my
smile...and there is everything and
nothing, in the Eternity of my eyes.

Spring,
time of life, of heat, beginnings
growings, season of joy, I do not
celebrate your warmth, nor rejoice
your heralding of summer, your bringing
of the fresh new growth. For I am tired, and weary
of the world, and sleep seems a balm, a soothing remedy,
And I shall go to it, when my time has
passed. As Spring must pass into Summer, Summer into Fall,
Fall into Winter, so will the seasons pass, and the whitening and
the shortening of the days come closer, ever closer, while I wait
amidst the eddies and swirls of youth and life and joy, buffeting me like
waves whipped to fury by the wind and lashing rain. Waiting, I stand.
Waiting I fall. Waiting I rise again, and wait once more for the season of silence
and darkness and soft tranquility, cool in its embrace, long in its passing.
Waiting I, for the Winter cold, and the shortening of days, and the silence over
all, imposed by death, and the frozen heart of life and joy.

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.

Autumn,
Summers dying,
leaves falling;
fire in the trees,
Herald of Winter.

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.

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

Standing, I rise,
within, the
weight of
doubt, of
fear, of
the lack of
will to pursue
my dreams,
my goals,
my life, fall
from me...
and I am free
and alone
and together,
and happy, at
last...and all that
may be achieved
lies in my path,
waiting, and all
obstacles that
stand in my way,
are as dust
in the wind, in the
face of my will,
and the knowledge
shining within
me, that nothing
is impossible, if one
will only believe,
and have faith, in
destiny, and in
oneself.

And so from life and the flower
of her youth, has she fallen to the
dust in death. She who laughed with
joy and who wept with her sorrow,
has passed beyond us. Her passion
unequaled, her vibrancy unmatched,
she burned as a flame to gather the lost
and the weary, and give them light and
love and laughter, and to bring them in from
the cold and the darkness. She who had nothing,
gave everything, even unto death. Food for the
hungry, rest for the weary, care for the sick, joy
for the sorrowful. She who loved, was loved in
return by all who saw the care in her eyes and the pain,
borne willingly, so that others might not suffer.
Her spirit strong unto the end, she dried the tears of
those who wept for her, and embraced their sorrow, so that
they might have peace and endure no suffering.
She was our light and our joy, the hearth to which we
came in our sorrow and our grief, to be held and comforted,
and to ease our saddened souls. She who would take our pain
and turn it into joy and light and laughter, now is cold and buried
in the stone. Now farewell to you we must cry and leave you to
your rest. Goodbye, my love. We will meet again in the far fields
of joy and laughter which lie beyond the veil of death. We must.
Farewell.

Walking...
Walking.
Walking,
light, the falling
Universe,
revolving
in endless
stillness,
within
Chaos,
within
Life.

Walking,
through
t­he ocean
of the
Universe,
of the void
not-void,
each step
sending
ripples,
energy;
the seeds of
Life.

Looking,
I see,
the world
falls
away,
the Universe,
is not,
and all
is nothing;
But within,
(striving
past the
Mind of
the Lost
Ones)
I see
Love,
and so,
the Universe.

Once I saw a girl, standing
by the shore of a deepwater
pond, smooth and black as
polished glass, and she seemed
sad. Her hair matched the water,
in sheen and in color, and her skin
was the pale of alabaster, and there
were freckles on her cheeks and around
her blue eyes, and her lips were red.


I walked over to her, slowly, and I doffed
my hat, because she looked so delicate and
frail, and I deemed she would appreciate
all courtesy and propriety, and I composed
myself for the speech of gentles.


I said, "Lady, forgive my intrusion, but I
saw you standing here, watching your
reflection, and you seemed sad. Are you
alright? She looked up at me, and her face
was solemn, and her eyes were sorrowful.


"Sir," she said, and her voice was steady, though
it was laced with grief. "Sir, I am grateful for your
kindness, and you seem a gentleman, and not used
to the hardness of the world, and so are innocent of
true pain and true sorrow. This is a comfort to me, a
great comfort, and so I thank you for your bearing, but
now leave me, for I am weary and full of sorrow, and
desire to be alone with my thoughts"


I was struck then, with the beauty of her speech, and
beheld that she was indeed weary of both heart and
body, for her eyes were red rimmed, and her hands
shook with the smallest of tremors as she stood, there
before me.


"Lady," I said, " Lady, be not frightened to share your
troubles with me. It is true that I am a gentleman, and
therefore unused to the harsher rigors of the living
experience, but, believe me, Lady, when I say that
none of this matters to me, nor should it to you. I know
we are still new met, but already I feel as if you were a
close friend of many years, who has been absent for
sometime, and that we are only now reunited. Share
with me your troubles, and I will listen with a kind eye
and attentive bearing, for to me, your troubles are now
mine, and your sorrows my own."


She stood, frozen, her blue eyes wide with shock, and her
bearing was as that of a startled fawn in the moment before
flight. I made no move, and I held my breath, and I held her
eyes in mine, for I feared that if my attention faltered for but
an instant, she would vanish, like a doe into the shadows of the
trees. "Sir," she said, and faltered. "Sir," she said again, "you do
not know what you ask. And why should my troubles concern
you? This world does not allow for weakness to go unpunished."


"Lady," I spoke, and my voice was gentle. "tell me your sorrows."
She shivered. "Be it so then. I will tell you." She shook her head
and stared into the dark waters of the pond, reflective like the sheen of
polished ebony, stared at her reflection, gazing up at her from the
depths, and sighed. "My troubles began a mere three days prior to
this, and if they seem to you frivolous or unworthy, pray do not laugh,
but leave forthwith, and I will know your mind.


"Lady," I said, and though my voice was gentle still, it was now deep
also and steady, as a mountain before the storm. "tell me your sorrows.
I will listen. I will not laugh. This you know. Tell me your sorrows."
She shivered, again, and her lips parted, and her eyes were more full
of pain and of sorrow than I had yet seen them, and my heart ached
in my breast. "Be it so." she whispered, and her voice was as a
splintered shard of purest crystal.


"I was looking into a mirror, and admiring myself,
and was full of joy at the fullness of my figure, and
of the sheen of my hair. So fixed was I on my reflection
that I failed to notice the approach of a beautiful woman,
with flaxen hair and pale blue eyes and with skin the soft
color of the lilies of the valley. She looked at me and asked
why I should stare so avidly at a simple mirror. I replied
that I was merely gazing into the mirror at myself.


Then the beautiful womans eyes flashed, and in them appeared
such cruelty as I had never thought to imagine or to conceive. "Such vanity." She said to me, and my spirit faltered within me. She
beckoned me to step closer. I did, cautiously, and she bent down
to my ear and whispered, harshly, "You are an ugly *****, and are
so outshone by my beauty that you are as a flickering candle compared to the glory of the Sun." With this she turned and left me, and since
then I have been here gazing at my reflection, and wondering why
God should choose to curse me with so terrible a form as mine." She was crying, the young lady, standing by the depths of the
deepwater pond, darker now, with the fading of the light. She would
not look at me, ashamed of the outpouring of her heart, and I felt
the ache within my breast grow, until grief found me, and tears sprung
unbidden to fall, unheeded, in the waters of the pond.


"Lady," I said, and my voice was heavy and laden now with sorrow for the grief of the maiden there before me, and for her crystal tears, shed in sadness. "Lady," I said, "will you tell me your name?" She shivered once more, and bowed her head as she answered, "Johanna." and a single tear escaped her closed lids to trace its way down her cheek, and fall into the blackness of the dark waters of the pond. "Johanna." she said to me, and her voice then near shattered my aching heart. "Johanna." I said. And again, "Johanna." A third time I spoke, "Johanna." I fell silent for
a moment, and saw that she was trembling, and her cheeks were wet.


"Johanna," I said again, and now my voice was loud and strong, so that
she looked up in shock,and her eyes were fearful. "Johanna, you are more beautiful than the sun in all its glory, more beautiful than the stars, more beautiful even than the infinite heavens in their celestial wonder, arching above us. You are more beautiful, Johanna, because you are you.
Johanna. You of the hair of raven hue, you of the skin like alabaster, you
of the eyes of the oceans hue, you of the ruby lips, you, your voice the voice of angels." And now my voice was soft, a whisper to match her own, as I spoke, close to her ear. "Let none wound you, let none dissuade you, let none harm you in word or deed, Johanna, for you are more beautiful than all of Gods creation, because you are you." She looked at me, and her eyes were full once more with crystal tears.
She sobbed, once, and fell into my arms, and wept. And I held her, there beside the deep waters of the pond, and under the vastness of
the velvet blackness of the night, and the moon, and the turnings of
the stars.

Think,
if the depth
and breadth
of the boundless
sea, were combined
with the serenity
of a flower, and
the stillness of
a clear pool,
forgotten
in a timeless
vale, if all
these qualities
were instilled
in a mortal man,
would he not
be an expression
of the Spirit
of God?

She stands there on the
tufted mound, the lilies
of the valley all about her,
surrounding her in
scented spring. Lovely, in
the hidden dale, in the
sweetly scented spring.

Hot, cool.
Damp, moist.
Blurring, biting, stinging clouds.
Spring Weather.

Us, the people, to me are as
stars, fallen to earth. Each a
small burning point of light,
one among billions, all so close,
and yet so far apart.