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Quiet, the leaves drip from slender woody fingertips
as shadows cast spectral dreams that breath through misty lips.

In the deep the Sylvan rests against the hoary staff he grips
and feels the ancient magic flow between the rune filled tips.

Taken from a Willow tree on summer moon's eclipse
from gnarled knots, the life it gives, his body freely sips.

Across a knoll he slowly strolls like honey as it drips
as hungrily he eats a fruit and buries all the pips.

From which will grow new tender shoots and supple grassy whips
offering once more to him the sustenance he snips.

The world he knows mysterious and old, his life but an ellipse,
going round and round he trod the ground on his lonely trips.

When he meets the Mountain Lions he bows from bended hips
to show respect and fealty for their regal mien and kingships.

And too, the venerable and stately Oak respectfully he dips,
but as old friends, they laugh and smile with jokes and clever quips.

Evening comes through tired eyes as through the sky the sun rips
tearing through to rainbow hues in brushed on colored strips.

As the night exudes from day, the dark oozes like chocolate dips
in which the fairy, sylph and sprite flies, sings and skips.

But, at the end of each sullen day beneath sweet buds he slips
Folded in their tranquility and ever loving friendships.



05/15/2016

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