The winnowing Wind pauses in mid-flow,
scattering her soliloquy
to waking stars, for the Oak would speak,
exhort his every root and branch
to minister to a gentler Light,
to the Harvest Moon that holds the Night.
I stumble into the now still scent
of wildflowers she bears through Seasons
that know no frontiers,
their fluid portraits born of Twilight's Eye,
dissolving each Dawn
into a Sky that wears wings.
Time returns a lost memory, a triton shell
that yielded the sound of its Sea to a Soul
that crept into its chosen crypt
under the lamp, for to preserve this treasure
of lives agone in deepest darkness.
She, the Artist in my dreams, wields a vision
I shall never possess.
Nay, her renderings must be and live
in a lapis mist as an airy gem, for my heart
waits by a ring of stone.
A falling leaf catches Autumn's first tune;
a golden harp string thrums
through the tremulous silver Dark,
abrim with voices I do not hear, yet know.
The Season grows,
moment by copper moment, into the ellipse
of my own Pearl Island of inspiration
in an ink-dark Eternity.
© 2016 Lily's Verse
Image: THE HARVEST MOON
Artist: Samuel Palmer