Over the hills
nightingales sing
to the chime of bells
ringing across  
English fields.

There, the lovers lay,
admiring the beautiful
blue spring day.

Out on the blanket
they roll with laughter,
recalling old memories,
and dreaming of dreams after.

Her beauty, a treasure
one truly adored.
A life without her
he could not afford.

As the sun sets
behind the hills,
his eyes begin to
fill with tears.

He leans in,
for a kiss,
only to feel a
cold, hard cheek.
Pulling back with haste,
a cry, a scream.

He rolls with anguish
recalling same memories
without dreams after.
Dark clouds appear,
her hand not near.

A rose placed
at her head, underneath.  
The lovers lay,
separated from her
by six feet deep.

So tiny are we when compared to thee,
we forget just how small we are.

But fractions of dust upon that which we lust, hoping to make us large.

How petty are things when compared to the rings of cries heard everywhere.

From the sky, but specks of time trying to make their mark.

Anon we will be gone, unable to long for that which we regret.

Take thy name, not in vain, and follow that golden heart.

A sleigh drawn by animal spirits, shall we now begin to live?

Although life slips away like sand through glass,
I continue to defy death,
for each breath is not yet my last.

Incorrect sometimes
the things we see.
Claws on the
bed room walls,
but branches
in a heavy breeze.
Or a door creek
from a suspected stranger.
Instead a gust of wind
the breath of mother nature.
A house burning
to the ground,
in reality a fireplace,
smoke spouting about.
Disappoint or relief,
in what we see.
So how should
we view the grin
from behind her dripping cheeks?

Faces of plastic, covered in wax, greased with the oils of appeal.

Forever Frozen, rigid and cold, lasting winters of years.

Bearing a smile, shallow and hollow, to gain that other’s ear.

How often we are told, we must avoid, anything that causes us fear.

I am the river atop the mountain,
I am the boulders down below.
I am the jagged cliffs above,
I am the fine grains of snow.

I bend along the mountain
those rocks steer my course.
Rushing white river rapids
blaze the trails from thy source.

The mountain face,
sculpted by river sands.
Waves smooth sharp edges,
creator of lakes and land.

Persistence through ashlar and slate,
water rushes down the banks.
Long withheld at the stone gate,
bursting floods make their escape.

From afar, beauty to be bestowed.
Chaotic in all it's necessity.
I am that which must be controlled.
I am the will of adversity.

My yard was always filled with roots
knotted in unconceivable ways,
always stemming back to the pines
from which they came.

The grandest gripping roots
lead to a twenty-five foot red pine
which stood directly next to the
smaller of its kind.

Its arms, always protected
the younger from snow, sleet
and the blistering sun
during the summer months.

But on a distinct fall day,
the pine’s roots began to retreat
back to its feet, slowly slithering away
from where the others lay.

It's branches did the same,
descending down to the trunk,
rapidly wilting, it's caressing hands
no longer kept the promise once took.

That eve, in the bend of a bare branch lean,
necrosis from outside influence,
festering fungi and insects,
bubbled an unexpected illness.

Creeping, crawling, parasitic pressure
cracked bark and tore ramus connections.
Giving way, its once mighty arms,
crashed and smashed falling apart.

No one knew of the metastasized wound,
only that their protector was there
in decent health, in loom of
the discovery of the crude truth.

The passage of time
consumed the pine,
it's contents returned to the ground,
absorbed by its younger kind.

My yard is still tangled in roots,
not a change since the fall day of decay.
The pines continue to grow,
with lessons taught from their mother's bones.