Father, Son

O' Daddy, Daddy,
why does pale the cold sun climbing
ashen rise before its blaze of Winter glory,
dressed in crimsoned gold?

My only Son, my precious child,
pure in what you ask and soon shall understand,
the dawning sun's celestial birth
reflects your infant blooming-
frail before its flight.

And why, O' why upon its infant rise
do frozen tears,
afleet and countless,
gild the East and waking West?

My darling Son, my growing Rose,
if your the Morning Star, then I'm the sky.
As meek I watch you waking rise,
and calmly waking blink and yawn,
I wander lone and weep;
with pride and joy, and sorrow!
Hurt, what hurt awaits my Boy.

O' Father, full in grace and glory,
why does red it Western bleed?
Its fullest bloom precedes its scarlet waning.
Far away and hanging,
must it slain and fading fall to rest?

The waxing sun,
upon its Western crest and fullest bloom,
decides to wilting wane, decides!
Its choice to fall, afar and full,
gives life to each the bursting stars-
a life for countless lives.
A gift my Son, the greatest gift,
salvation born in death.
Like yours my Love, yet lacking in its breadth.

As twilight comes,
and darkness vast pervades,
again, again December weeps?
For what should twilight mourn
or who?
For what the gloom, the sorrowed sigh,
and what intended tomb
could sunder sun and sky?

My blessed Son, my far most precious joy,
the Winter sky again reflects the tears
that well within your Father's eyes.
As late the deepened dusk laments
the passioned sun's descending,
so I'll take to walking lone
in wordless sorrow weeping.
All for you,
the choice your sure to mercied make-
to take to man's intended tomb,
that timbered tomb that seeks to tear
a Father from his Son.
But I nor Winter's sky shall long despair.
For just as twilight's sun,
which hangs amidst the woods
upon the western peak,
at dayspring wakes
and breaks the long and shadowed night
to rise and meet the lighted sky,
so shall you,
upon descending late your timbered tomb
again on Easter morning
calmly waking blink and yawn,
and with the dawning sun ascend
to meet your Father's long embrace.

Within its Wake

Like snow from Winter's shaken bough
the flower fell, its pedals full
like thimbles welled with milk
together bound and spilling.
Bereft of wind to catch or carry,
soft the blossom tarried, loosed
with each the gentle drops of rain.
Above, the braided branch
abates in beauty, bare
where long the flower lay.

It seemed the moon's descending
far and full amidst the graying morn,
drowned as near the stars surrounding wept
and slept like snow upon the binding bough.

I silent watched it willfull stray,
away and lone wandering late the Summer morn.
While weaving beauty born within its wake,
it also saddness strung-
the many flowers aching stood to see its drifting,
parting 'midst its fullest bloom,
its silken pedals pure as virgin snow
and blessed with Godly grace.

All of nature,
each the ageless trees both leafed and pine,
bent to glimpse its dovelike face
as one by one it present passed.
As the tall Sunflower turns
to greet the waking sun and spend
the livelong day discerning late
its leap and fixing full its towered gaze
to bow and watch it set
to evening's hazel half-light,
so it turned to face the flower,
newly fallen, near and present passing-
so it bowed
as far the flower Western set.

Then joy; the trees resumed
their timbered tune and upward reaching.
The tall and golden flower skyward gazed
to taste the rush of rain
and sodden stand aright.
With long the lifting branch
where first the flower bloomed,
they each in turn rejoiced-

Some for change, some for growth,
but all for He who dipped His brush
and painted such a thing,
free of will to rise and wander;
such a blossom, the finest stroke
His gentle hand could bare.

Modest Reach

You've grown, you've grown, my little budding blue
and precious child. Days have passed, and years
have fled beyond my reach, my modest reach,
to places far and shaded, distant fields
of thought and long since faded. Both your blue
and seeking eyes, which once were meek and pale
have swelled to oceans, welled and crested tall
and held at full their highest peak, about
and lately blooming, bold, abound to broad
and deepened heights.

And such astounding sights
those pearls will soon behold- of dawnings doused
and lit, from East its quiver taken, held
and drawn, released upon its Western arch
while skyward trailing long its lighted locks.
A world of distant deeps and needing, dawns
a-loose and steeped in stars cascading, cast
against a sun and sky asunder, down-
ward dropped and bleeding; such astounding sights abound
the world shall wield.

Before I fade to fields
beyond your modest reach, recall the days
where long we lain on Summer's salted sand,
our imprints long since washed away; recall
our Autumn marches, brave you led as close
I followed, guarding sure your every step;
if only brief, of Winters spent on white
and hilltops cold, to you they stood like tall
and covered cliffs! My growing blossom, blue
and blessed, for just this instant know- that since
your Autumn bloom, a month nor day,
nor hour broke bereft of true my deep
undying love about you bound and bent.

Mountain's Dawn

The West horizon, leafed and climbing,
awakens steeped in gray.
Beneath the river's rising mist
the mountain darkly bends,
a deep descent commencing East
to greet the water's edge.

Beyond the river, still and listening, East
the hilltops facing, soft with embers glow.
Quick the embers shift and shade, and deepen-
a golden rush ascending, primrose rising,
sudden glints and lunging Westward leaps
to light the mountain gray.

At once the West horizon sighs.
Amidst the climbing woods
the ashen mist becomes like March's snow;
retreating, riverbound recoiling,
leaving bare the sodden leaves and soil.

The forest dawns;
embers leap and set the leaves a-light,
glaring yellow caught with scarlet,
gold with garnet!
Every tree becomes a flower's quickened bloom,
as pedals lately curled and closed commence with opening,
colors seldom seen arise
and crest the tower's restless reaching,
crest the mountain's shadowed bend,
and crown its hallowed peak.

With all the valley caught ablaze,
the bounding sky returns to blue,
the birds emerge and set to singing,
the river, calm reflecting fleets
who lofting set to Southward sail
as ordered geese commence their crying,
ponder's morning's rise and Western reach,
which buried all that evening left
as jade and deepest green,
beneath its crown of crimson, clear and crisp.

But like a fire
fast consuming,
October's day is short,
and Autumn's early eve
upon the mountain firstly falls;
behind its timbered crest
the wilting sun departs,
its raging red declines to auburn,
shading dim the leafed and downward bend.
The forest sets to dusk,
its crimson chars to claret,
all that shone with yellow, gold and garnet,
sets and darkens,
deep maroon beneath the mounting moon.

Night emerges, black and clear,
obsidian marked with micah.
Its cast expance expends the lasting light
of long expired stars from constellations lit
and placed above the empty earth
when man had yet been spoke,
or given eyes to skyward see.

The obstinate pinetrees stir nor shiver,
wan and quiet, caught
beneath the crescent's palid climb,
as night commences late
to greet the faintest first-light.

Then just beyond the Eastern edge,
faint ascends a thickening glow.
The water casts no crease or quiver,
East the hillsides softening sigh.
Amidst the acorned branches chiming,
the palest chards of color facing,
the West horizon, leafed and climbing,
awakens steeped in gray.

Firefly

I watch the Summer's land-lights,
twilight lit till morning leaping, each
a candles flickering flame.

It's long and late they luminate
August's slow and thickening eventide.
Like minute moons they mute appear
amidst the push of dusk
against the blistering sun;
as if amidst a clouded night
when moon and stars are veiled
then sudden seen
through windows where the clouds abate
and just as sudden dim enshrouded,
so the land-lights wax and wane-
like each a quickened moonlife,
new to full,
new to full.

Then September brings a frost
upon its swift and blackening dusk,
galloping great and shapeless.
Evening breaks the weakening day,
its sunset seeming small and distant
casting thin and frail,
a shy semblence of Summer's pyre.
The little moons as well
begin to wane and fail,
casting only crescents
where once they hung afloat and full.

Midnight bound, I find a faltering flash
just beneath the bending blades of grass,
far below the starlit moonlight.
Stooped to kneeling
slight I lift a single blade and stop;
new to crescent,
new to crescent.

A candle dimly lit and flickering,
mute the long-light fades
beneath the night it lighted
Summer long.

A Late Exhale

Cast upon a windless sea, broad and breakless,
the oak and ash, the evergreen, like landlocked masts
amidst the down dropped breeze, enduring- stir nor shiver.

The sun along its leap, East nor West,
pulled by both in equal measure, halfway hangs.
Above the leaved and lavish spires, about the blue
and lighted sky, it calm and cloudless keeps.

Then, tossing wide across the meadowed plain,
down the dormant hills and rolling, sound
nor ripple made, a soft and sudden sigh;
a quickening tide approaching, tense and lifting,
swelled and building, billows 'long the shore.

It rushing whispers rumors, fro and to,
to every tree who listening, near and distant
bend their boughs and call in chorus rote;
who cast their violet pedals 'cross that
breathing meadow, tossing slow and dear,
languid tracing trails, each other chasing.

All that's green and growing, deepens glowing,
gasps and knowing shakes and shivers.
Every leaf alight with anxious chatter
greets the sudden pitter patter, pitter patter,
upon them pearled and played.

The swelling storm upon the West, an instant stayed,
peaked and curled, a baleful crown of clouds
about its deepened crest- decides.

As burst the stars at twilight's rise and wake,
like snow from burdened boughs, or late exhale
from long intake, above the tempest breaks.

Father, Son

O' Daddy, Daddy, why doth pale the cold
sun lofting, ashen rise before its blaze
of Winter glory- gold and crimson dressed?

My only Son, so sweet a child, pure
in what you ask and soon shall understand;
the dawning sun, celestial birth, alights
in like your blooming, frail before its flight.

And why, O' why upon its infant rise
doth frozen tears, afleet and falling, gray
and countless gild the East and waking West?

My darling Son, my growing Rose, if you
the Morning Star, than I the sky. As weak
I watch you rise, as sure I cradle calm,
I gentle kissing cry; such pride, such joy-
Yet sorrow! Hurt, what hurt awaits my Boy.

O' Father, full in gilded glory, why
doth red it western bleed? Its fullest bloom
precedes its scarlet waning. Why to fall
in shadows, sad and fading laid to rest?

The waxing sun, upon its western crest,
its fullest bloom, decides to wilting wane,
decides! Its choice to fall, afar and full,
gives life to each the bursting stars; a life
for countless lives. A sacrifice my Son,
so great a gift, the glory born in death.
Like yours my Love, yet lacking in its breadth.

As darkness comes, and sadness proud parades,
again, again December frozen weeps!
For what the gloom? the tears and sorrowed sky?
For what the sadness, born from sweet celeste?

My bless-ed Son, my young begotten Son,
again, reflecting I December's sky.
Again my tears, the gray and countless cold,
descend for sure the choice you'll mercied make.
My Love, the sailing sun, arise and full,
away and dusking, roams in passioned praise!
For life the gloom, for love the solemn sky;
for you the tears, your choice my sweet Celeste.
But joyful, proud i crystaled cry. Again
it shall tomorrow rise, as sure as you
shall resurrect. Behold my Son, its glow
reflects the gift, you gratis shall bestow.

Timbered Tune

Remember, oft remember Redwood, oft
recall, beneath and batheing, full in moon
light, long arms lifting, far aloft
the landscape leaden- oft with timbered tune
remember.

Born about the birth of Christ,
the lifetime's lived and lost; O' Redwood tall,
aleve your burdened boughs, your fingers iced
and Winter wearied. Forthright render, call
amidst December's dour, cast your cry
among the tower's shifting, sleeping, wise.
Astir and standing, sing your hallowed sigh,
as slow the life surrounding, fleeting dies.

I'll listen Redwood, bowed beneath the moon,
as soft you bellow, slow your timbered tune.

Crimson Thoughts

I caught the scattered scarlet, fleeting drops
of Winter's bleeding, fro and to, and two
amidst the hush of snowy timbered tops.
The glimpse, as soon as seen, away and flew;
the wandering matches struck and casted quick
a flickering crimson brilliant blush- then just
as sudden, out the matches blew! As thick
the joy their presence carried, think the rust
behind and left, when taking wing, they fond
and thither wandered white the muted scape.

My silent steps could not compare. Despond
and pondering, walking Winter's shadowed shape,
my crimson thoughts of cherried chime and cheer
awoke the dearest distant spark of Spring-
the faintest thought of shaded brooks and clear,
the calm their fragile quiver beckoning brings.

Then breaking, bold and breaking cold the bite
of Winter blistering pulls away the drops
of scattered thought. Asunder too, the flight
of feathers midst the pine and timbered tops.