Birds playing with the cherry tree
Loving through the winter
In the cold slate northern skies.
Never felt the magic of the sea
Wash over me
From our nest up on tiger hill,
Where sweet storms settle and rage
Churning the pure airs still.
Wandering through the grace of life
With the crooked eyes of a child,
Born to grow distant
From the fireside glow of love
And the joy of blood warm wines.
Will love grow out of painful truth?
Will love come from where?
Turning in and back to face the
The chord from which we leapt
As wavering, tentative cloud
Craving something like desire.
The soft flute of seasons bring the gift
Of a symphonic terrain
And pulsing veins stand proud;
A breathless dance lingers in the heart
Of the routine and still grey.
Yet as night time crawls inward,
From the orange moon we are drawn out as
Slipping, as our pale shadows are eclipsed
By a greater darkness,
Returning what was to a deep blue reflection
And distant murmurs in stillness
We sense but never gather.