Before the midnight hour chimed
A white wolf crossed albescent snow
And saw me with its diamond eyes
Shining right into my soul
I miss the woods where Dad and I
Sat by the coppice of conifer trees
The warmth of the winter sun piqued my mind
Nature’s aroma wafting in the breeze
The years have eased the ache of loss
And let the Northwoods live once more
White snow, warm meals, and paths we crossed
Return like footsteps to my door
For every memory, I give thanks
For love, that time cannot unravel
And pray beyond these earthly banks
We’ll meet in Heaven by God’s gavel
My mirror grinned at my first grey
With rearing youth, it’s my first fray
Disturbed, with care I plucked that bane
Next day to find one more, again
I cried and sighed and went astray
That’s how began my darkest day
With whitest hair and day by day
At deepening my fear and pain
My mirror grinned
With no concern at my dismay
Went on my hair, to well betray
With more and more albescent strains;
Until one day remarked Miss Jane
I looked smarter with that new grey!
My mirror grinned
The windows of my soul open through your eyes,
edges on my heart, your smile soothes.
Tell me all of your tales of sadness,
share with me this world of madness.
Your angelic face gleams saliently
from beneath a hospital white sheet.
The pallor of you albescent face calmly
dulls the brightness of this sterile retreat.
A curl of black luster in your ageless hair
flows from white bedding into the air.
Show me your every tear and sorrow
as we cross the seas of tomorrow.
I will take a cloud to wipe your tears,
give you a rainbow to calm your fears.
She sleeps, like a flower in a floral bouquet
a blossoming petal in a garden array.
She sleeps, I'm never more to touch that line,
furrowed in her brow so fine
that wrinkled and creased with each smile or tear,
from a laugh, a sigh, a hearty cheer.
Her words, her sounds, filter through this wild mind
retaining, recording each lost whisper I find.
Wild is the river flowing gentle through the memory
of my mind, wilder still the thought of my Glory.
It is hard and bleak
now, below his tired feet
with the grey above him,
albescent with time
clouds bubble above him there
like an old man’s beard,
though you, his sweet one
are the soft green in between,
bring back salad days,
when you address him
you greet him with such relish
to flavour his life
and so he holds on -
ever in mind as at hand,
leaning on the wind.
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