This was written in late September of 2010-
What is this moment of stillness which looms upon autumns' breath?
Tis' not the strike of saddened wind thro' the erect crowns which grace the trees-
but exists within my very soul, as tho' loss, and awoken change dares to whisper in grey.
This imposter, which I cannot reveal- consumes the meadows below-
where my spirit, so often seeks refuge to escape.
A mood, of blank- impedes, not that of tears, nor that of laughter;
but of a melancholy type of curious- comparing only to the naked touch upon a wrought iron gate in the dead breath of winter.
I wipe a lost tear, altho' the contents of this wet birth does not bid purpose to the icy intrusion upon my warm cheek- I welcome the cleansing.
For these are the moments which our flesh has been given pardon to feel the kisses from our soul, and accept that- we are.
I hear 'them' move about; the 'others' which share my likeness.
I hear 'them' amongst the -hush.
The hush, is a song which speaks of transition in mourning, yet celebrates natures' right of passage.
I wonder, as the hush whispers thro' the decaying, paper- skin, of dying leaves; do 'they', can 'they', also hear the prophecy sing?
A bird to my knowledge, clothed in white, takes flight across this gossamer stream-
Is he such as I, capturing the essence of sorrow, or is the compass of his wings a symbol- to where ceremony should belong?
My reflection within, now illumes as I bestow this message of traverse measure, to accept this recourse- eluding the ray of grim, and to praise the motion of the sea which unfolds overhead, and underfoot.
For the eulogy adrift before my eyes has been sent forth to announce the season now shall sleep; not because the hush of the wind sings of change, but simply because even the seasons must gently lay to rest- so they too, can dream.