At the pond

with frogs, herons, and evergreens,

I don’t feel so ungainly

with my heart spilling out

and thoughts floating like leaves

making ripples on still water.

Here is a place for instinct and fate

with no judgment,

a cycle of growth and sleep

laid out like a story’s arc

to follow through air sweet with spring

after a cold winter.

We started on a page

scribbled by firelight

with coyotes serenading

through the night.

We have seen Venice and Paris,

traveled by train, by flight,

haunted abandoned warehouses

and museums, danced on wires,

laughed with angels, embraced

the dark, read verse not yet written

in each other’s eyes, and weathered

seasons that march on relentlessly.

Endings are a myth

as art renews like love, like spring,

like an echo of song

to carry us through.

The warblers shared a song

And they carried it with them

Everywhere they went,

Together or apart.

It had no season or rhyme

But it was timeless

And meant to be heard

Forever across rocks and hills.

Their song was simple

And devastatingly beautiful,

Same as a storm but softer

Touching anyone who would hear.

The tree had stopped blooming,

its perfume long faded

spring rain was just… grey.

The water bird stood nearby

at the edge of the pond

and asked if the tree was sad.

“If I had sackcloth, I would wear it,”

and shivering slightly,

it shrugged.

The bird hopped to the tree

brushing its wings

along a magnificent burl.

After awhile, the tree spoke

long, sonorous tones

fitting for old bark.

“I miss the morning chatter

of birds in my branches,”

it sighed.

“The way the afternoon sun

smiled on my flowers, the feel

of late-day breezes around my trunk.”

The bird looked at the branches,

mostly bare but not quite

and asked if it could help somehow.

“You already have,” said the tree

as it bent slightly toward the bird,

feeling wings wrapping around its trunk.

You send light, clouds

and a mighty howling wind

through my valley

you don’t hear me, heed me

or even want or need me

it rains and snows

on the same day here

counting beats between thunder

tracking colors of sunrise

hearing the stream’s swift current

I am tossed about

on a sea of cushions

blinking and squinting

through wind and fading light

you remind me of epic stories,

and secret hurts, the best which

make me crave the quiet after

you prevail, unforgotten

often unnamed