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Where have all the artists gone?
Were all of the poets put to death?
Hung by paper leafs,
Ink quill fatal injection?
Why do I not read of
sparkling stars?
They speak not a word
but the loyal light
of their constellation
brings always
consolation.
And why do I not read of
two craggy peaks
and the soft moonlight
between them?
A gauzy shawl on
bony shoulders.
Has no one noticed that
after the storm,
Mother Earth's ten million
jade pine needle
fingers are
dripping grace?
Does no one watch
Trees bowing down
to the mother
in the
winter wind?
Life is mystical
it simply doesn’t seem so
Because
we’re used to it.
© 2007
Born again Pagan...and again...and again....  Halsey Alyn · Fri Sep 19, 2008 @ 08:10am · 0 Comments |
