When I am dead and over me bright April
Shakes out her rain-drenched hair,
Though you shall lean above me broken-hearted,
I shall not care.

I shall have peace, as leafy trees are peaceful
When rain bends down the bough;
And I shall be more silent and cold-hearted
Than you are now.

It will not change now
After so many years;
Life has not broken it
With parting or tears;
Death will not alter it,
It will live on
In all my songs for you
When I am gone.

By late July,
  I’m counting sheep again.
    I find an unknown land
        to gather the remnants

of my lucid dreams.
  Each night I’m walking alone
     across deserts where
        nothing ever grows.

Years of rainfall
   have left them barren.
     By late July,
         the deserts are beginning

to fear the sun once again.
   I talk to them, and say;
     ‘Don’t be afraid. I hear
          a thunder storm approaching.

El Niño will flood
   the riverbeds close by
      and you will, once again,
         flourish; a beautiful oasis

blossoming with life.’
   I am consoled by my own
      inability to sleep.
         The empty spaces ahead,

no longer phase me.
   As the desert is brought to life,
       a flower lies below each
          step I take through my nights.

If I look deeply enough
   the faces on the flowers
       begin to tell
          their own stories.

They tell of years underground,
    a seed in the desert soil
       still, motionless,
          waiting patiently;

the awakening
    of sleeping beauty
       comes slowly
           then suddenly.

I consider how they grow,
    they neither toil nor spin;
        they simply be.
           I stood silently.

All night, I waited.
    I watched them;
        how they trust all
           they need, will come.

They neither toil nor spin –
    for all they said  
        was shown to them.
           ‘You see,’ they say

‘one day you’ll finally know,
    all you needed to do.
         You must not fight,
            just be.’

By late July,
    I stop counting sheep.

© Sia Jane

my fingers have become bored with
the quicksand of routine
they prefer to dance erotically over my typewriter
frolicking like naked ballerinas
over an ancient stage
spilling their secret thoughts
onto blank page,
after their day job
threaded together
over my lap,
or bending over to
reveal the contents
of my burlap sack

they have taken instead
to jumping over cracks
in the nothing of night
stifling the sound of silence
with assortments of clicks and clacks
punching in the perfect pitch of keys
to leave Beethoven blind
from this symphony of notes combined

and just like that at last
they have unfolded some rhyme
unachievable with ink and pencil,
without the stencil of time
dictating to work inside the lines

She weeps not for the shore
As distance creates a shadow
She embraces the current
Becoming the wave
And gently pushes her sea home

She chases not the sun
As the day is put to rest
She is the moonlight
That cradles the stars
Tightly to her *******

She yearns not
Her pain-streaked tears
That fall below her feet
She is the soil beneath her toes
Her pain now colors the tree

She worries not
The flowers' bloom
Or the leaves that fall like rain
She is the wind
That will kiss the ground
And sweep it all away