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.