A sallowest silence drips,
drop by drop,
into open muddy palms
The ripple in the gathering cup
of hand, undulates within soul
like poignant ocean waves
eat away at the sands of time ,
just below where
a lighthouse beacon beckons
shining from someplace I can’t find
A hidden pathway
lies untrodden
beneath a thousand
dew drop clad ferns ,
fronds bestrewn with autumn’s
befallen sleight of hand
swaddled in her fading
manifest guise
Where wild mushrooms
rise blindly from
resplendent darkness
beneath silken earthen moss ,
to teach the parables ,
how fleeting a moment passes
The moment enwrapped
in nature's solicitude ,
the only shelter
mother nature's own refugees
whom dwell in an ever fugitive
sense of belonging
Fallen Lichen scattered
like wild feathers ,
traces from a higher ground ;
sown bread crumbs
of the heavens ,
abandoned like slowly falling
snowflakes upon a labyrinth
coursing beyond
emerald dank bejewel
Leading me willingly onward
beyond belated familiarity ,
exiled void of affinity
a Trumpeter swan
in search of wapatos
The stone cold silent languor
rises up through
thickly grasping moss
Wind stirs the ennui
with a breath of kindness ,
chilling a body in a soul
as cold as lonely stone ,
sheathed beneath
its hard yet fragile disguise
A twisted pathway
leading somewhere
I yearn to follow ;
somewhere unknown
beckoning from
deeply hidden hope
and its urgent calling
Somehow the uncertainty
of the path I am drawn
makes me feel
a little less removed
Assured by the gentle touch
deeply rooted ancient earthen spirits ,
beyond doubt , I’m never alone
deep beyond wooded margin
Cocooned in creation’s sanctuary
mother nature’s own refugee ...
wild is the wind