Oh, to walk up to a branch,
and press myself into its leaves,
to travel up its twisting trunk,
to the top, where wind blows free.
Oh, to hang until I’m gold!
and then wane until I’m red!
and to drift down here – old -
just as science teachers said…
But oh the flight! and the ascent!
and the fall through colors deep!
and all the smell of autumn’s scent,
where science never creeped.
I’ve asked the midday morn,
to describe her voice to me,
and asked the garden thorns,
to sprout words as a reprieve.
I’ve begged the moonlit glow,
to paint her sound upon the earth,
just as I, twenty years ago,
searched for beauty in short verse.
Now, I am old and much do know -
and many lines I have amassed,
But how could one describe a rose,
to a rose, if ever it should ask?
There are no words, just a soft deed -
to show the rose itself.
For even roses could not find the words,
to describe the words they felt.
In the beginning God made a tree,
and it grew into the sky.
In time it had son and daughter seeds,
before it fell and died.
And each of these grew tall and green,
and on and on this went,
until a man cut one down for me,
and now I write on it.
Thank You.
There was a man of science and mystique,
who lived alone, one hundred years ago.
With thoughts of light and its pure reach,
he was entranced, for not much was known.
So every day he stayed up in the night,
and far into the next lonely, waking day,
and with a candle by his bench and side,
he would mark the notes the Spirits gave.
Every morning he’d remain, until a squall,
came at noon to his working place,
and though still toiling – and by the wall -
he’d smile when he heard the water’s pace.
For when he heard the lightning, strike -
’twas as if he’d found some long-lost lover.
It was then he’d stop his work, with clouds alight,
and clap as a salute — from one master to Another.
There are privileges of beauty,
There are privileges You bestow,
And if I could live until eternity,
The differences I’d never know.
For the birds which wing away,
Are dressed with cloth You rolled –
How lovely they fly in the day,
And in the night are never cold.
