On the road that passes from the old, dead world
unto green glades under a cloud-ridden sky,
a traveler takes in the sweet mists
and is reminded of a dream.
Breathing out, he shares what life he has
with the long, unkept grass
flowing as waves atop a stormy sea;
waves that break against the stony road
and sink back toward trees skirting the northern fringe,
whose wind-tussled leaves shiver in the gusts
of early autumn.
The ashen Sky, his guardian,
She groans from labor pangs,
withholding until the last second
the bounty thus preserved from its conception
as God might retain such gifts until some fullness of time…
if only time would ever grow full.
