Wednesday, November 14, 2012

November 14

This feathered arm,
these leaves,
the scent of a damp
November forest,
all conspire
to both threaten
and reach out;
echoes of a child's confusion --
the hand that holds the whip
and then the food;
the brow that holds the scowl
and then the smile...
Like Christmas --
bright green promise
of a gift
and yet the red
of blood that is to come.

Always and ever
the paralyzing tension
between the longing to be seen
and the desperate need to hide;
caught between the hope and the despair
which colors every beauty that we see
with the threat of death beneath.

The leaf that pauses briefly
before drifting to the ground,
the moss that hides
the dark decay below --
how then do we choose to live?
Who dares accept the glory that is now,
ignore all thought of what might come,
all reminders of what transpired before;
to press her cheek against the soft green moss,
to fill her eyes with that red glowing fire
to know the sweet embrace of o'erwhelming Love.

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