I toss my troubles
Down the wishing well,
Watch them until they melt into the inky black,
Bid them farewell, if only for the night,
And let myself wander the alpine forests of my youth,
Where the wax seal of time
Is still warm from the pouring,
And the swaying, golden fields of life
Have only just begun to be harvested,
Where the air is redolent with the heady scent of loam
Mixed with distant traces of sea foam;
And if a tree falls in this forest,
It won’t make a sound,
So unburdened am I
That I am more faith than flesh.
I come from the forest
Where dreams go to die,
And the smell of loam,
Deep and dark,
Disguises our every secret;
Where the silence,
Impenetrable as the fortress along the shore
Where impossible wishes spawn,
Swallows every sound.
There is life.
Beyond the starkness of barren trees,
Past the fallen leaves,
Just South of here,
There is life.
It whispers in a silken voice,
A breathy gust of wind
Against the ear of the weary traveler.
“Seek me where the river meets her mate,
Where the autumnal trees burst back into riotous color,
Up past the mountains, where you shall find me
Worshipping at the altar of wanderer,
Hoping to be sought,
Praying to be found.”
And there She will be,
Looking like an angel,
Fallen to her knees –
“There,” you shall say,
Much in the same way it always does,
With a blustering gust of wind
And a hint of chill in the air.
It came for me
While I was asleep,
The turning of the Earth
And the motions of the Heavens
Colluding to bring about the fall
Of all those brittle, bright-colored leaves
From their summertime stations.
Fall entered stage-right, and I?
I stood, enraptured, as She came closer,
Caught utterly unawares by her presence,
Not realizing that summer had gone
Until it was already far too late
To mourn its passing.
Did you see the pale purple transparency of light
That just this morn, heralded the coming of dawn
O’er the ocean?
Did you notice the great expanse of grey that followed,
Or catch a glimpse of that pastel-colored leaf spiraling through the air,
Did you hear the owl’s lonely cry,
Watch the birds on their journey towards warmer waters,
Witness the arrival of another glorious day,
Or was it just me,
Alone with the sea?
Was pink this morning,
And so were the hulls of the distant ships
Orbiting the horizon
Like far-away stars;
Pink and grey,
And utterly golden
In this light,
Like tiny lighthouses
On some remote island outpost,
Towards the sea,
The sand and the surf,
And all the places
I will never go.
The mountains pass
With the most stillness,
But the trees, they are
Such transient passersby,
Such fleeting parts of our lives,
Fleeing so quickly from view,
As if running on fleet-footed feet,
From some flagrant forest fire,
Far from here, and smokeless, too,
Cold, by now, ashes at most,
And scattered ones at that;
And of the human element?
The houses, the streets?
They, too, pass with rapidity,
Save they are not running, but rather
Are static, yet not unchanging –
Flaring and fading, then falling
Into the complete and utter abandon