The past it is no sea
no tide that breaks upon a foreign land
it is a creek, an oily little stream
which bleeds its waters on today's white sand

soft falls the silence
gentle rain upon your face
beads full between those waiting lips
a poet once, but taking sips of watered war
has stilled your voice
and beauty speaks no more

Rain is fodder
food for hungry puddles
when the sun is out
they waste away to nothing

Today I will hang my Winter curtains
thick and soft as a cat's full belly
December throw your gauntlet
full blast the rain, the wind can roar
they will not step inside my door
for every sound becomes a purr
when I have donned my seasonal fur

Summer wears a gauntlet green
in Autumn rusted patches can be seen
Winter swaps for stout grey wool
to keep his fingers warm
Spring a stripper's emerald glove
when ready to perform

The sticks and stones
of ancient bones
are seen beneath the skin
a mushroom scented dying
as the year is growing thin
sing requiem for Autumn
so that Winter may begin

music and movement
pretending to be a tree
in your pants and vest