There was a whisper in the woods,
A quiet croon seeping through
The copper-pelted leaves outside.
A hapless, boundless earth at dusk,
Echoes in the rainfall whittling down
All the fleeting snow and moonlit dew.
You liken the frost to mountain doe,
Silent footfalls slipping past the creek.
The canary trills, the nightingales whistle.
You take clippings of foliage and reach with
Nimble hands for that moss on your roof.
You've plucked at strings of goosetail feathers,
Tossing bag and coin into your nest, painting
Cracks in the stonework with brittle clay.
Roasted hazelnuts by the fire, a cooking pot
Clinging to tattered twine as the kettle boils.
This rainstead home of mine, so sweet.
So kindred the grove of nestled vines
And azalea hidden in the depths of time.
You step into shallow water, fretting not
For the winter brewing underneath the dirt
And trodden sand as the night draws ever nearer.
The nightfall cascades like a curtain drawn,
Foghorns in the mist that settle like tides.
Your gaze keeps track of the fireflies,
Flickering in the stillness above your garden
Like lanterns beneath a coven of stars.
You've aged with the verse of nature's tune,
A lullaby for the quiet-keeping and seldom shrewd.
Akin to nettle upon the tongue and
Wilted plumes on frozen ground, the mind
Grows weary beside the encroaching wind.
Cardinals forthcoming, allow my spirit in your song
And keep this memory until we've set with the sun.
You settle like a dewdrop in winter's crest
Before the snowfall swallows your uncaged soul.
Your musings are engraved into the hawthorn trees.