He read the leaves like
love notes.
Heard music
in the breeze. He knew
the trees by name.
The child was at home.

Now leaves are code.
And, notes tumble on jumbled winds.
The forest is strange...

Had a dream.
Dreamt I was brave.
Like a knight who slays dragons.
Like a great adventurer.
Like a martyr dying for conviction.

Yet woke, I lack
courage
to follow such a dream.

I see you.
sitting there thinking
no-one see me
sitting here.
I see you sitting there.

Ambling a forest path, soft earth
cushions his feet. Winding past
ancient trees. A tawny buck, branching antlers,
crossing the trail. Frozen
for a moment, then gone.
Picking a berry, spot of blood—Prickly vine,
but sweet,
purple black and juicy.
Beyond the pines he spies a lake,
crystal blue,
and longing for its cleansing chill, he—

He stumbles.
Shackles fling him upon the ground.
Captive.
Here Master dictates.
Reality found at the end of a whip.
Heavy loads and
heavy labor are his lot.
A slave to the whims of others,
worked to exhaustion,
he is skin draped on a bony frame.

By twilight he dines on meager dole—
beans and rice.
Above the tinkling of chain on chains
and the muted groans from tired men,
under the first stars of the coming night,
the hoot owl calls. He closes his eyes

…and longing for its cleansing chill, he—leaps,
gasping in the cool, clear water.
Swimming with strength unknown for years.
Plunging deep below the surface,
water embraces,
and he accepts its grasp….

Very much, I want
to write something really grand
and deep
and profound.
Something that will make
the reader gasp at its erudition
But, so often,
we don't get what we want.
So, what is it that I need?

Sitting in an abyss of my own creation,
as the wax of my last candle drips burning down my hand,
and I wonder:
what would I see if I blew it out?