One day I shall write a poem
About youth, age and folly—
And the incessant evolution
That marks our time on Earth.
Like birds blinded by the Sun,
We fly indecisively, seeking
Memories lost within the distant valley.
Though obsessed with dawn and evening,
We observe the unstoppable passing of
Life and death and life again,
Tapestry of flowers so intricate
We wonder if there is meaning
Pervading, whispering hidden subtleties,
Yet never does it fade or die.
Here I rest among April mornings,
Content to see tardy trees begin to green,
Still leafless for another week or so.
Before long May will warm them
So that every naked branch will soften,
Delight in budding groves where I roam
Confused, yet awake to all living dreams.
Standing on the summit of common pleasure,
I hear the stream singing, each liquid moment,
Pouring itself toward summer’s warmth,
Wild growth and fields marked by birch—
Large yew at the edge, resplendent with age.
If only I could make this place my home,
Years after I am gone and in my grave.
How many more Springs
Before an eternity of long winters…
Where I lie secluded and deep in slumber?
Blossoms of fruit, fragrant yet unformed,
Slowly ripen to yield themselves,
Passing from summer’s heat to
Sensations sweet when full promise comes.
There are such mysteries hidden,
Waiting in the weary world— sublime,
Felt within human heart yet unremembered,
Lost in the mind, mislaid in multitudes of empty rooms.
Still it is a blessing to be a living soul,
Fever of the world hanging upon each breath,
Slowly changing the world more than we can ever know.