As per the request of a pair of friends, I wrote some poetry:
Impassioned by the roguish brands of harvest clime
Enraptured, poked, and slit by feral nature,
Tossed and turned ‘midst color nomenclature,
I, maddened, lost, can scarce concoct this rhyme.
As haughty crimson, orange, brown and gold
In wanton fury storm amongst the fray,
And marching down their own along the way,
A global war is waged, a world waxed cold.
Yet death in chilling rest affords short peace,
A tender wrap for nature’s angry
Such tranquil bliss that through thy image sews,
A questing soul’s row pacified in fleece.
‘Tis but stark mercy to the cosmic lot,
That after grief thy wintry sleep be wrought.
A wanton air that once flowed soft in sheltered
Strolled across the meadow still that secrets
And blissful still the potent scent that sweltered
In the breeze,
Flowered in the mountains, over rivers,
Through the trees.
What rumors of the ages swooned amidst
The mossy rows
Of grasses slumping stalwart in the dreamer’s
What magic tales resounded as the moon-light
Lit its eye,
Within the hoary ether twixt the pavement
And the sky?
So still, so faint, so fragile was the murmur
In the wind,
That scarcely could I mark it ‘fore the zephyr
Yet on the cusp of breathing, the whisper
of the night,
Came issuing like honey in thine eyes
And of thy sight.
Drifting like a specter, upon some
The myst’ries of the heavens in thyself did
Though restless are my patterns and selfish
Are my ways
In thee, oh night-time maiden my feral