If only I had meet the sun
Before falling for the rain.
If only I had danced in light
Before running off with pain.
I wish that I had been born in Spring
Instead of rooting in the snow.
I would have seen what I was missing.
If only I had known.
When He wakes up
His feathers are
So He spends hours
Smoothing them down.
Some days He wakes
Up early, starts
Building a nest and
Other days He’s the late bird,
Missing the worm.
Not that it bothers Him.
Leaving early for winter,
Coming home late
In the spring.
He never chirps
I catch Him singing
And it’s the sweetest sound.
There was a place where we would go if hearts were brave enough to proceed,
Where we, the children, learned to grow among ghostly trees and withered weeds.
Such a place would feel for sure to be one you should not ever venture,
But children love all the allure and always risk the timid enter.
In this place we were our own valiant kings and queens,
Sitting on our tree stump thrones among the dying greens.
This place among the crunching leaves and animals collecting gold,
Was full of wonder only we could see and only we could show.
We spent every late night chasing the stories we adored,
And many months simply erasing the reality we abhorred.
Still, no night that we had ever dreamed was like the one we most remember,
Because magic is what it always seemed in that frost of late December.
The way that ice had trickled down in an air that chilled our bones,
And collected softly on the ground, made us feel so far from home.
It was a spell that we were under and silence was the sign,
That we had lost our breath to wonder, our hearts to the studded sky.
Even the crickets would not lilt in fear the moment would elude
And for once we all were standing still in awe of the brilliant view.
The silence stayed the whole way home because we knew that we had spied
A magic that could only once be known, no matter how hard we tried.
The sun is bright and shining through the tent,
And I hear the breath of life in the trees.
The birds will sing their song in all content,
As you stay sleeping silent next to me.
What’s a little white lie among thousands of bodies?
The everlasting smell of this burning copse army,
Turning their flesh into air freshener.
No one ever missed a murderer.
For now, the bodies pile in barren snow,
Staining the ground where grass use to grow.
Turning them all into fertilizer.
This is just my appetizer.