Bodies of Fallen Leaves

Sunk are the spirits of the living.
Every step desecrates a noble memorial
for what we race against.

Time has turned these bodies brown
It proceeds at will.
Just wait, time is merciless.
It will show no patience.

The seasons rush us onwards.
Water, rake, shelter, prune
Did I stop and share in nature's communal solitude?
Was I in deep slumber at the awakening?

Every drop of remorse
lingers in the dehydrated leaves.
Pledge with each crunching footstep
that the bodies of fallen leaves
will receive a dignified burial.

Spoken of the Woods

Converse with the trees.
Wooden chambers, human thoughts
Behold, rings of time.

Conversation of the Natural Sort

Speak freely to the air
for all it throws back-
whether it be a breeze, a gust, or a tempest-
is void of ill-wishes
and cannot pose any harm.

When spoken to
the water will sing back
with an orchestrated rain
or a metered undulation.
Do not fear the depths of placidity,
it wants nothing but to make buoyant your soul.

Fire will not think to scorch
least the embers glow
and more than words are thrown into the flames.
Heed where feet pirouette
when felicitating nature's eloquence.

It's only the human tongue,
with its eons of phonations
that hastens from serenity to blasphemy
without forecast.

Unearthing Conversation

Is it now that my turn has come
to weigh in with my shoulders,
bend from the knees,
and lift my point to the sky?

Is it time to plow the fields,
sew the seeds,
and tenderly pluck
at the root of my thoughts?

In the mind of an afterthought
I wipe my brow in worry.
Have I planted much too late?

Will the frost hold off
while the autumn sun shines
on a harvest hoping not to spoil?

Essential Seasons

I.
Verdant
The sprite of springtime flower
lands and roots
anew.

II.
Sun tramples
Come quench
an arid persistence
breathes dust

III.
Grown for humble earth
Supple leaves
curl
in autumn decay

IV.
Whisper
growth renew
refresh from last year's
desecration.

Body at Rest

Her body fills the spaces between springs.

It's been two hours

since her muscles

tensed against the sheets;

two hours,

and pain still lingers.

Nothing but a real sigh will take her into slumber.

Afterlife

Otherwise known as: Margaret recognizes her afterlife and wonders if she should put any reliance into faith.

I will be sent to hell
rather than receive
the nectar of heaven,
for I was heathen.

I will perish
for believing
that solid bounds of earth
touch the infinity of the sky,
in universes.


I will cry at my funeral
for having found myself reincarnated
and realizing that our beautiful planet
was the prophetical destination
all along.