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Brandon Gene Petit

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On His Watch
by Brandon Gene Petit

Sunday, December 12, 2010
Rated "G" by the Author.
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Recent poems by Brandon Gene Petit
•  I Am in Awe
•  Laburnine Lullaby
•  London Sleeps Not Tonight
•  Hemlock Street
•  Seldom
           >> View all 39


                 Nature, my enigmatic lover, she speaks to me through nebulous signals… a rustle of leaves, the hymns of a bird… and she cares not whether I translate them aptly. Our eccentric love affair carries on in the shadow of a higher paternal power, our spirits wed to the tune of thunder’s scripture and the approval of a noble deity. Vows are spoken in riddle and the kiss is but a taste of vernal winds, but the kingdom that is revealed to me more than suffices for the lack of clarity my human form has weaned upon so childishly. Secured by an impermeable trinity, I walk through our limitless world of beauty that speaks most cordially to the unaided eye. 
Glinting rays of sunlight pierce through the canopy to color the hot breath of humid forests; leaves reeking of dew drip faux honey onto the fungal nether regions of a twilit woodland. Floral scents waft through the reeds, pooling with the musk of distant rains that threaten to advance across the fields… altogether a sensual reminder of distant heavens briefly sampled in the wake of a former life. The triumphant victory cries of shell-horns echo to the music of gorges and gulleys, while the hulls of great ships crawl onto welcoming shores.
Japanese gardens boast the plumage of wild birds and roseate trees, where the flowers smell of sweetened water and their petals perpetually fall upon rain-painted cobble. Apes lounge about the ornamental steps and decorative pools, picking at seeds and splashing at Koi while their fiery manes glisten in the Eastern sun. Steaming oceans collide with cliffs and fling their spray into prisms about the air, a symphony of seabird screams accenting the drone of sifting waves. Strange, deep-dwelling beasts that feed on the carcasses of whales scour the depths in the presence of living lanterns that foster their own lunar glow.
Bat clouds bursting from a sunset cave… big, dusky moths on an old barn door… even the creatures of night receive our utmost blessing, for if nature has looked past my sins then she must look past their noir quintessence just the same. In that same vein, I am grateful to receive her father’s blessing, and upon induction into the royal family I continue to explore their erudite language… the bird whose call reminds me of heaven, and the thunder whose baritone breaths awaken the most profound of distant memories.






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