my friend came by the other day
as a leaf in the wind he has blown
from street to street
            town to town.

a wanderer he may be
but not at heart--
he longs to be attached
to a tree
                               any tree.

in spring and summer the leaves
     are green and
                              attached.

summer slowly dries them out as the tree
                    prepares for winter.

my friend the dry brown leaf
blows in his perpetual autumn.

we all grow in our own time
and season:

winter dormancy

         spring regeneration

                   summer fulfillment

                             fall  preparing for the
                                                  
          ­  inevitable
season of death.

these seasons of the soul
are the very essence of our existence.

     they teach us

        temper us

        fulfill us.

but there are those who do not see
the purpose of the seasons.
to them winter means only

                             cold

                                       snow

                       desolation.          

spring means only

                    rain

                mud

                            flooding.

summer means

                             beauty to mock
                                the heart in
                                     winter.

i trust in the wisdom of the seasons.
nature teaches us lessons in her cycles.

let the  l
                e
                 a
                  f
fall to the ground.
let it rot into cold

    stark

                        winter

           desolation.

spring will come.

bleak gray will become bright colours
                  of spring.

the beauty will fade once again but will
reappear in winter's own stark beauty
though it may be cold and gray.
then spring will come.

          spring-will-come !!!

Few maple leaves
hop
on the wooden surface,


their
burgundy
contrasts with the polished
brown of the semi-circular deck

the playful wind drives them
off,
the grass hugs the dried skins, giving
them a final home, in the back-garden.

they are reborn as tiny
stalks
in the same yard
in
the spring!

What is waiting for my weight—
for the matter I carry,
for the energies bonded within me?
What is lying dormant—
anticipating the day
when my body lays itself down—
so it may drink from my cisterns
and eat from my stores?
What will come into Being
from my ceasing to Be?

Bowed heads weeping death
Spotless lamb reborn three days
Trumpets sound return!

Tick tock around it goes,
the clock shall soon strike twelve
and the one I knew for oh so long
will be but a passing dream.

His face will change, his body too
but not his mind or soul.
He’ll fight to stay, but burns so bright
that in the end he’ll have to go.

This is not the first time,
and will not be the last,
but new memories will form
and my time with him
shall soon be ancient past.

We fought, we lived,
we learned, we loved,
we walked among the stars,
but in the end one life can never be enough
for the man who lives a life so different from ours.

He’ll soon move on, and start anew
he’ll leave us all behind.
Searching every face, day in, day out
we put trust in all his lies, and wait forever
for someone who’ll never come back.

Tick tock around it goes,
the clock shall soon strike twelve,
and once again he is no more,
replaced by someone new.

waves orchestrate
bruised kisses
smack

dazed moon’s
beclouded stare
numb

teal canopy’s
torn sinew
strewn

tidal riposte
homeless debris
scars

shattered fins’
bullied silence
screams        

callous world      
spawns grinding
vice

rabid avarice
fuels dueling
drive

winds stir
shifting sands
gasp

light eclipses
night’s capricious
rule

noon darkness
steep ransom’s
paid

earth salvaged
true Son
stands