Meanwhile in a dismal sense
I stop to ponder, low whispers
in silence so shaded,
to thoughts of revelation.
 
Early in the hour
before twilight could gasp
a single shard of stardust,
to a twinkling blanket sonata.

Whispering low to the quiet’s
I ponder in a voice gentle as a falling leaf,
like a trickling brook, hidden
underneath a forest of green landscape.

Where was I before
I should find me standing here?
Among the overgrowth of tall grass
between the covered path and my intentions.

Here within lies a broken wheel.
My hand slides along weathered oak
feeling the steel band which pounded down
broken rock and underbrush.

Like a shoe to a horse,
to keep the caravan moving,
long is the underbrush that grips my soul
as when this wheel was cast away.

What seasons have passed as God creates
each day so different from the others.
The stroke of a brush reborn in each
new canvas that opens with the sunrise

The summer rains have stripped the wheel
of finish and in the procession,
weeds and brambles peek above
this motionless silhouette.

Adorned in the meekest of hues
beneath the underbrush,
life is pushing upward, holding
tightly to things that have passed away.

Willing this wheel to live
like the might oak that grew before,
to be recreated in each breeze
that beckons to the breath of life.

What has become of the caravan, that moves
on the wayward? What have I become in you?
Am I so openly defined among the ruins
of everything put behind to weather the seasons?

I am not ode to the silence of death
that finds it’s reverence
in a last gasping breath,                            
I am here to live again in you.

To separate the time that lies  
between your visions, that leads you
far from me chasing the sunset,
moving as fast as a caravan.

I have been yearning to be alive again,
to move in you and ignite the possibility
of my apprehensions in your eyes,  
as a crashing sound of a wave
pulls you closer to the water line.

Sweet is the sunrise as the taste
of your breath is lost with me forever,
my lips tremble to reach
your simple graces.
        
Living each heartbeat not set apart,
tasting supple tones wrapped
in bits of intimacy, beneath a cool summer rain
on a single canvas, painted in one hand.