My Lady sleeps now,
pale upon a bower
of brown world,
dreaming new spring
on a bed of old year
wrapped in frost
and hints of coming snow.

Her breath is stilled,
slow-measured
in the growing cold
and darkening skies
all left behind
by Autumn's flight
across the world,

they all look at him now
he looks to the great scroll
unrolled to the horizon

over a mile of paper, industrial, delivered
in the only truck the villagers had ever seen
it had taken him half a day to unroll it
four years to fill it with erudition
he wanted the answer

he had started his task with what he knew
wrote about all he heard and saw
then villagers helped with stories from generations
old school books and childrens rhymes

For what intention
Do I live
Knowing of nothing
Of pure life
Or understanding death

Can the trees
Hear the music
Of the wind
Without any ears
Yet they dance

As the ocean
Loves the land
To such degrees
It caresses it
Day and night

Am I different
Among these things
I am universal
Connected to all
Yet all alone

I only answer
To my own
Heart and conscious
Can I hear
What is said

If we could but hang around our coffins
like curious little misfits with a penchant
for hiding behind the curtain somewhere
over the rainbow
the prevailing myth of fantasy
would certainly be heard as the tree
falling in the forest no one hears

frankly speaking, the tree is dead.

Barks stripped of essential gentility, no passion
remains, no rage, no
beguiled forest to lose oneself in
nothing to be held back

the will-o'-the-wisp enters the shadowland,
head first, heart last