love is the silent mirror...like the alabastrine river...
You call me a flower
But what kind?
Is it a yellow tulip? A cluster of warm sunshine and happiness?
Or maybe a Lily of the Valley? The tears I’ve shed for you made into delicate little milky white blossoms
Each petal carefully watered by the streams of water that run down my cheeks
Or am I an Aster? A small star, made from Astrea’s tears, so small and insignificant compared to the shining, sparkling gems that light up the night sky. Looking up at those ethereal jewels, never being enough. No wonder Astrea cried, I would’ve cried too.
Or am I a White Lily? My innocence and purity once so clean, as white as snow now forever tainted with your darkness. A dark, unremovable mark on the alabastrine flower, that will stay, no matter how much I try to get rid of it.
There stands in my yard a dogwood tree
That is a remarkable sight to see
Why it took several years for me
To grasp the grandeur of this fine tree
Is still somewhat of a mystery
We bought our house that sits by the lake
The yard looked like an awful mistake
Radical pruning, I had to make
Opening up a view to see the lake
The work it was not a piece of cake
My plan was to cut the dogwood down
But instead, I trimmed it all around
Then moved on to clearing other ground
A fortuitous choice I have found
For in the dogwood beauty abounds
In Spring it blooms pedals soft and white
Alabastrine beauty in morning light
Seen best when you pause to view the sight
Blooming beauty over a fortnight
Spectacular limbs when birds alight
I've never heard the sound of snow
nor dawning's oboes crooning light,
yet witnessed angels' trumpets blow
and chimings of the flurries grow
as alabastrine wings take flight.
I've never heard the sound of snow
when cello strings caress the bow
of morning at its burnished height,
yet witnessed angels' trumpets blow
a salmon cirrus cameo,
diaphanous and opalite.
I've never heard the sound of snow,
piano in the afterglow
of sunshine's brittle fahrenheit,
yet witnessed angels' trumpets blow
ebullient through the chorals' flow
across the operatic white.
I've never heard the sound of snow,
yet witnessed angels' trumpets blow.
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