Season Saved In Second Birth

My meadow remembers Summer's well,

when willow wind would breathe her scented questions,
through billowing hair in sensual grasses,
sharing eyes of gathered stars,
as warmer rendition of deliberating duet;

our inspirations,

rising from my mounded earth of rustic colors
born to bless my blowing body.


In my ice bound winter touch, baring age
through cracking skin, and thinning bushes,
I lie in state to taste of cloves,

once more, employed to evolve
a joyous laugh in deeper passion.


I am frozen ache to feeble fingers,
speaking what is left
in soul worth keeping,
within my blurring skies of December.


The end of love,
is new beginning,

for I can feel the ghost of Christmas
serenading limb of future flowers,
kept as sacred stems to dry,

pressed in purple pages,
maple drops of ageless sages
keeping fragrance to feather mind
inside hallucination's endless travel.


I turn in wonder,
seeing every lost sensation, as kindred breath
dispersing chilly air inside my lungs of craggy inspiration,

until those notes of life to live
find as sigh to bend my dilating wish
a grace in ears of circle spun
through silken harps of harmonic overtones.


I see her shadow save my hope
in longer,
evening stones to gather,

mirth that I could watch the play,
and have a chance to write my way,


as crimson stains to ancient orchestra
burning heaven’s last intention,
craving surrender to the watering earth,
as season saved in second birth,

this love I feel for Nature's convention,

her constant grace of growing miracle
standing still, moving hill,
always singing whispers of now,

as wilder motion born in grounded ocean,
etching portrait throughout my vision

of light to gather new contrition.