The blossoms are calm, and yet still, she sings for
the heavens within, the white heron bows to the sea water,
It sees the clouds of night touched by lunar wind, the
lucid paintings of seagrass contemplate the presence of the
poet floating upon the waters, and say to her, “you too, have wings”,  
the lights beneath her as dewdrops, bright as cricket melody, the lone lantern glows in the silent hour of all, where the artist’s senses awaken as ripples of butterflies opening, the petals in far  flight ask her, “are you I?” , her starry form is light upon the mirror of the moon, a ghost of time and being, the beauty of imperfection decorated her as the
stars, the heron asked her, “your nature is delicate as my feathers, why did you wish to hide?” she sung back “I hid because I was afraid, I loved in a world of no love, I realize now, to reveal the amygdala that lives in color is to be brave in a world of grey, to be delicate is a strength, to have tears is to have power, to paint your emotions through eyes and lips is grace, being is the greatest gift” she perceived her revelation, “I am human, in solace with both light and dark”, her hands floated upon the water, the sounds of the ocean echo the endless journey, she becomes the milky amber dream, night has turned to day, the flower of the sea has found her abode in the one whom has loved her before existence, she spoke not, for all the songs have already been sung,
the eons have spoken, softly, she folds her eyelids in the heavenly warmth, there is only her whisper, “I have returned to you when I was never lost”

Lance-Lot
by Michael R. Burch

Preposterous bird!
Inelegant! Absurd!

Until the great & mighty heron
brandishes his fearsome sword.

I wrote this poem for a great blue heron who visits a pond that I pass on my daily walks — a truly majestic bird and the ultimate spear-fisher.

As white as the snow that is yet to come
And as delicate as a fallen autumn leaf
A Heron patiently waits like a philosopher lost in thought

Basking in the sun
Savoring bliss of solitude
Heron on one leg

Piercing Eyes of Goldenrod.
Both bold and brilliant.
The calming center in a hurrricane
Of blue and white feathers.
A gaze which levels any ego,
That should find itself too
Important, in either size or space.
(Do you believe in omens?)
Rebirth is on the horizon,
Or so the star seekers say.
Change, the end of old ways, days.
(But I'd not think it)
The Universe likes to share whispers,
Of things to come or happenings of maybe.
There is no intent ill or otherwise,
Just the honest grievances of time.
As this God of Death, sits high upon
Stilts which bathe in still waters,
I see horror. I see despair. I see death.
That vision, those eyes, golden and
Sinister, but humble all the same.
While the winds sing of new life,
I hear the sorrowful hymns of death.
(Balance.)
There are many ways of knowing.
Magic both black and white.
Magic old as time, as new as a moment.
And if I should see the dark days ahead,
Count that a blessing, to see anything at all.

majestic white herons,a siege,
spring up, winging skywards
in unison, as if according to a
well designed rescue plan,
following a disaster,
scattering to all directions
from a tree,a flame of the forest
imposing and wildly bloomed,
like a high rise with secret ambitions,
creating an illusion of a sudden fire accident.

avian music,
march past of herons follows,
sunset formalized!

A regal white heron,
a bird of passage
that had followed
it's beloved dream
a long, long distance,
sits quiet unmoving,
atop a flowered lemon tree
on the bank of a tranquil pond
that wasn't known to it before.

Fish, enjoying freedom,all along
play meddling it's reflection
as if daring the heron to act
by trying to catch it's attention.

The crowned heron,
more placid than the pond
on the wings of an elating thought
resumes journey chasing it's dream.