On the gentle ***** of a green and waving hill, vibrant with the life of spring, flowers fall from the outspread limbs of trees, an ocean in their sound, and fall gently to the earth, soft as a mothers kiss, upon a child's tender brow. The wild flowers are spread out among the grasses, bright spots of changing color, amidst the flowing green, waving in the springs gentle breeze, light glowing through the blades, shining in the sun, the scent of life and growth and change arising, slow and overpowering as the years to come, as ages gone. Underneath the spreading trees, their leaves give shade and succor to those who fear the light and hide from its revealing rays. A fox rustles through the underbrush, coat burning orange, a rushing flame in the green light, filtering down from the canopy above, dim in its softened form. Ahead a hare, leaning down to drink from a cool and quiet pool, looks up as a ray of light, pure and golden, falls from the heavens, as the light of God himself, admitted by the wind rushing, parting the woven branches, above, beyond the trees. The leaves spin and sparkle, sighing also in the breeze, and so a harmony ensues sighing leaves and rushing wind, in that tranquil, quiet place. Dust falling, innumerable motes of glowing light, they drift downwards, minuscule, as snow made all of light, dim and golden, like the shining sands of heaven, swept down to fall to earth, and dust the earth with heavens bounty, and let its light sparkle for a moment, an age, in the quiet of the world. Far above the wooded hill, beyond the rustling grasses, and the colorful blossoms in their midst, high in the cold of the infinite heavens, and the currents of the flowing wind, an eagle soars, and so in mastery of the world below, the world above, does swoop to take unwary prey, in claws cruel in their curved dimensions, and the sharpness of their edge. But below in the world of quiet peace, though blood may drip from pure sky, and so enrich the flattered earth, all is yet still, and calm prevails, and if blood does fall, sprinkled from the heavens as a cruel rain, macabre in its crimson gleam and scent of severed life, it falls unknown, unmarked, to soak into the warm earth, receiving as it gives, and so is added once more to the cycle of life at the beginning, from which in time new blood will flow, through veins new and delicate, frail with the tender youth of new things begun, and so new life be born from death.
I dedicate this Poem to the magical days of early spring, far from the smog and cites of man, and in The Mothers gentle hands. Also, please comment and tell me if the title doesn't sound right. Thank you.
