Moonlight snuck up on the land as warmth gently radiated from the earth. The raindrops cooled the atmosphere and diluted her angry tears. The land screamed the loss of her favorite climbing tree as her broken heart sought solace in the deluge.

Devastating Night

Followed By Hopeful Mornings

Then Heartbreak Again.

The oak tree stump weathered over time forgetting the meaning of treeness. The stump cracked and splintered as the moss worked its way along the surface, becoming a stool of sorts with green and fuzzy upholstery.

Nearby the mushrooms grew in a reasonable circle around the stump. Adding contrast with their bright red tops and white spots to the muted green and brown of the stump.

From the root it bled, gave birth to comfort, splitting open to new shades.

The land knew not to fear because life comes from death, and life leads to death. Just like the circle of fungi that encircles the rotting stump, life too forms a circle. After many phases of the earth spinning through the void a new oak rises from its nourishing center.

Fairy circle spins

The oak tree sings softened tunes

Cycles start anew

A leaf is drawn by the shade of a dream. What hue colors your thoughts in hopes and fears. Memories strung across the horizon's beam. Trees capture time in empty lots. Plastic bags and piss filled pints dot my way to work.

Paper tumbleweeds

Apocalyptic darkness

Death scents blow through streets

A barren land stinks of mankind’s hand. Where did all the green thumbs go? We plant seeds in toxic land and death rises like morning sun. Love the land, the Earth, the seed, what beautiful future can we breed.

When man touches green

The land weeps as it's ravaged

Can life follow death?

And sunlight snakes behind, so I chase my shadow through the streets. Work awaits. It's hard to appreciate the glisten of dew strewn between piles of vomit and litter. I'm more aware now of the little sprouts climbing through the cracks of concrete, like hunchback children clawing at life, resilient and sorrowful. I'm not sure if I should mourn them or thank them for the reminder.

Endless Sprints searching.

For beauty among the trash

A treasure I prize

I dig, searching for meaning at the bottom of sticky barrels, at the nape of the neck of discarded giants. At the bottom of the stinking heap, I find the bits, the minimum to keep me floating across the asphalt. I am a sacrifice to these sidewalks, a ghost of glory days and industrial dreams

Sacrificial me

Am I to be a martyr?

Or can we learn love

The trees are to swallow me up beneath their roots, their beautiful whispers are more than the leaves in the breeze. So here, I will close my eyes for the final time, the Earth drinking me up. The tree covering up the last breath and then the grass grew new and fresh, turning the death into life again.

Evergreens Speak of

A final dream awaiting

A muted exhale

The final dream escapes through an open window into the still air of night. The final breath swirls in the cloudless sky. The stars look down on silent thoughts and dying tears, their light millions of years old, traveling through endless vacuum.

Foggy spring time days,

Firs cresting over the peak.

Breathing air so chilled.

in the end I see -

an abysmal waterfall -

a golden rainbow

Perching near the end of it, nothing makes sense. Dust-coated rain and silver darkness. The future circles back slow in the breeze, speaking soft beneath the dirt. Tastes like iron and hope here beneath the branches.

in the air I smell,

what started and what ended -

the cycle of life

Trees rustling, birds chirping till the woodpecker knocks on the wood of my house.

I reach out, opening my screen-less window over the second floor to wave him away, for there is nothing here to eat.

He comes back every day, till I dangle the glinting metal and he finds a tree across from me in the woods by my neighbor's house. So beautiful, so pretty, just not knocking on the roof of my house.

in the hollow knocks,

shadows escape from the air,

can we find kindness?

The garbage receded as the forest reclaimed the excrement of overpopulation. Birds returned with the last seed of the the truffula tree. The trees begin to speak for themselves as their voice has failed to protect them.

Leaves and vines consume

The deaths we all leave behind

Casting flesh to dirt

And where is the tree of the prophecy. Was there never a Garden of Eden? Let us learn, let us eat, let us turn from or toward that which makes us stronger. But let us know, let us see. Grant us a glimpse of that life which could be.

Apples of thine eye,

Shining gleaming tempts of gold

Trees in gardens fold

The tree, now decomposed, feeds worms before children pluck them from the soil. They wiggle to the rhythm of laughter, scattering dots of dirt on pudgy hands. This is Eden, soon to be smeared on tattered rags. Sooner forgotten.

the warmth of dead light,

in the lost breath of cold love,

lost where children dream

Children skip back with worms in hand, cutting switches for fishing, not for pain. Learning how the Earth provides. Cycling from giving to receiving, reaping and sowing, birth and death. Worm to fish to dinner to manure.

And the sun shines bright

And the moonshine flows freely

And star shine sparks souls

There, in the pristine blue black night shines the stars. In the distance, white light pours up from the city, but it cannot penetrate here. Owls hoot as the chirping birds have quieted, gone to bed for the night. I listen, taking one deep chilled breath into my iced lungs and the heat within me dissipates as I bleed into the night. I am one with the coyote that howls, the deer that rustles through the brush and the elk that clack hooves across the asphalt.

I am the night life

You are the warmth of morning

We are why birds sing

Their song resting between horizons and dancing along the line where dreams become blinks. A slow stretch beneath the covers before the cold of day kisses heel. Just a few more moments here before I say goodbye again to the solace.

multi-colored pens,

etch a melting memory,

can we watch the sea?

I want to feel the sea air blowing against my hardened skin. I want to feel the cold of the waves on my feet. I want to feel the warmth of a body resting against me. I want to forget the cold of the night, the tears of the day.

salted air grinds skin

her warmth escaping my touch

my wind, made of loss

Family trees may bear much fruit, yet some branches never get to grow. Occasionally we must face the mortality of youth, and the loss scars the bark and molds the tree. We cherish every leaf and find fresh blooms are still as sweet, though watered now and forever with our tears.

empty heart still beats

bare branches cry out in vain

silent teardrops fall

* * *

[dedicated to Eddy M. Smith III]

[March 26, 2011 ~ June 18, 2011]

[Grandpa loves you little Trip, forever...]

-----------------------

©2023 - dustygrein

In the way that you mourn for the past- dying embers floating lonesome, seeds

burning into the shrouded night, like you, like me. it carries not comfort of warmth-of worth- but the burning, singed skin flushed with spiking chemicals and fraying lace, so seductive in its familiarity, raging temptress of poor resolve.

You, me, arrested

dance atop the angered coals

Moonlight, she deceives

Walking down the street, wind brushing through my hair, there you are. Elegantly, striding past me, perfectly poised in every motion of your body. Perfectly messy hair, peircing eyes, and a face that shows peaceful contentment in such a serious way. My heart skips a beat, as you lock eyes with me, acknowledging my existance. You glide past me, effortlessly, leaving me tingling with excitement.

My déjà vu dream,

Mind candy immortalized,

Have we met before?