The Host Invisible
Sweet lips of rolling frost will whisper slumber
to the restless wraiths across the hill--
those soft, impatient ghosts who couldn't fathom
their own summer's end-- quite content
with furnishing cool breezes
where the mortals played...their own mortality
delayed.
Now kissed with spirit wisdom
while the earth reclines
and spirit night descends, the winter friend
invites them on, past harvest time, to sleep,
and then to frolic with eternity
when launched from Gaia's hill
to consciousness anew.
Sweeter lips than these, bereft of blood,
return the messages
we do not always hear. Yet still
the pilgrims from a timeless plain
will never cease their whispering
to us, that we may not forget
their love.
~
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