He does not arrive
he claims the horizon.
The wind forgets its wandering
when his breath passes through it,
trees stiffen mid-whisper,
and dust, once arrogant in motion,
bows into stillness.
There is a weight to his silence
not emptiness,
but the crowded hush of command,
as though the earth itself
waits for permission to turn.
Muscle coils beneath a cloak of gold dusk,
each step a verdict,
each pause a question
no creature dares to answer wrongly.
He is not noise
noise is what follows him.
A trembling in marrow,
a ripple through the unseen threads
that stitch fear into flesh.
He does not chase dread
dread runs ahead,
announcing him in broken rhythms.
Even shadows hesitate
before touching him.
Even time, bold and tireless,
seems to shorten its stride
when he stands.
For power is not in the strike alone,
nor in the teeth of ending
it is in the knowing
that ending can arrive,
swift as a thought,
final as dusk.
And so the plains remember him
long after he has passed
in bent grass,
in held breath,
in the quiet confession of the living:
Some forces are not seen
only felt,
like thunder before it speaks.
At the edge of summer the rainy squalls disappear,
polar wind whispers under the sapphire sky clear.
Drooping leaves of garden trees wake up to its call,
don the crimson drape before they wither and fall.
Dawn creates a crystal crown with pearls of dew
for the bent grass blades wrapped in russet hue.
Leaving nests in forest the summer birds fly away,
with fallen fawn foliage the shadows of trees play.
From the horizon beyond blue hill cotton clouds fly
like the sailing ship on the serene azure of the sky.
As the saffron sun sinks in splendor in twilight hours,
the canvas of fall is painted with the blazing colors.
Earth wakes in the spring with new sprouting grain
After brittle white frost, or slush under rain
We can see gold arise, where the wheat fields were sown
and the hills are ablaze with a honeycomb loam
I can see quivering trees, and stiff shocks of corn
The amber of the noon, and the warm curl of hay
The fragrant smell of earth, of green moss and peat
Where tangled bent grass and willows will lean
A muddy bank falls, by the winding rock creek
and the dampness has called us to soon wash our feet
Our blanket is spread upon the spring meadow's girth
As we drink up the peace of the sweet scented earth
________________________
3/15/16 For Elements of Earth Contest
Time washes all that memories contain
Still, loss of love remembered can stay
The years of regret silently remain
Their binding ribbons of sadness inlaid
Love for another a heart can betray
Leave footprints in the bent grass by love's weight
The imprints deep, left to explain away
From cold dark eyes used to eviserate
Could love reach out farther to grasp a hand,
as it turns slow with its back to the sun?
Would a final kiss ever understand,
that love is free or there is none?
With lost leaves of summer, footprints in grass
Love's forever lost, memories trespass
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