I
Here comes the storm.
When all of my choices are to be made.
For so long it seemed so far away,
And like a mirage it stayed the same.
No matter how other things moved,
The faster I moved the farther away it went.

II
Without a place to escape to, i followed the road where it went,
Wishing I knew what would happen after this storm.
I think it would be beautiful, though, as horses moved.
And though the storm comes no closer, despite my effort made,
Everything must be decided, nailed down, because nothing will be the same.

III
How tempting it is, to push everything away,
When I don’t know if this storm came and went.
Everything could be different, but to me it looks the same.
If only someone who knows it, could tell me of this storm.
**** it! I know some preparation could be made,
Soon, this storm or I will move.

IV
Once I begin, I will not be able to stop moving.
This storm will pull me in and I won’t get away.
I’m afraid it will take from me the ambition I’ve made,
I’m afraid that after I won’t know where it went,
And how to find it. maybe I won’t want to see this storm,
After all, it’s me that will change, this storm-any storm- will always be the same.

V
This storm, until I pass it, will stay the same,
But its inner workings collapse on themselves, and so its sameness moved.
All things cater to a storm.
They are invisible, but I know this one’s here. By the sway of the trees and the bend in the light and how all of the animals scamper away.
Through the warp of the stars I can see where it went,
It leaves a path, and to follow everything is made.

VI
Perspective is lost when fear is made.
And not all fears will stay the same.
If only in knowing where I went,
I can tell if the storm has moved,
It won’t matter if it stayed or went away.
It will matter that I walked-tall-into that storm.

VII
It will always catch up no matter how we move,
If we stay the same or move away.
Regardless of where we went, ahead remains the storm.

In the last days of summer, I have seen,
What was in that golden haze,
Was but a dream.

In those fleeting moments, I have heard,
The sound of the mourning dove,
The truth in its call.

These final moments, these endings, are they truly?
What is an ending, but the time before a beginning?

The sigh of the breeze washes over,
This tranquil spot in time.
The words whispered here half remembered,
Like a lover's summer song.

Eventually this place will com alive again,
The laughs, the joys returned,
As soldiers to their wives.

Alas, for now this pond and Her flowers,
Hold naught but memories,
And soon, for I have seen, those whose
Quiet forms have danced on the surface of these
Quiet waters will remember.
And later, they will remember remembering.

But forget, no.
A place like this is not forgotten,
Like a winter morning, a day's first light.
They blend into every lovely sight, until,
They become the same and run together.

This Pond and Her flowers, will remain,
Distinct but undefined, as simple as a
Lover's summer song.
And reunion with this place still holds joy, As wives of soldiers know.
Those who've been here, and all that will come,
Will remember remembering, until their memories run together.
But still I see,
This Pond and Her flowers.

The report came out today
No fires, it said
Too much risk of a much larger blaze

Not a candle is lit
Even the little ones sidle away
To avoid the heat they eschew the light

Then the smoke appears
The observant would have noticed long before
Everything waits for the flame.

Perhaps the heart is a lake
Stretching wide across
Leaving gentle waves in its wake

Where yours is deep and clear
And of the purest sight
Why cannot mine show what is so near?

The calm waters of your shore
Will not temper my inner storm
But could you be a shelter from my sores?

Could your rhythms, so even
Hold in my wandering self
Despite my miseries as they lengthen?

Can you throw off my chains
And watch me run away
Though before you I am your pain?

Winter is coming.
Are we prepared?
The wolves have started howling.

The cold will be numbing,
In the stories they shared.
And now Winter is coming.

Traditions are fouling,
The young king impaired,
The wolves have started howling.

As the previous hand he was becoming,
For curiosity life isn’t spared,
And now winter is coming.

The new mystics are scowling,
Soon their teeth will be bared.
The wolves have started howling.

Kings are ascending,
The wall-keepers stand, prowling.
Winter is coming,
The wolves have started howling.