Monday, December 3, 2012

Dryad Weeping on a Fallen Tree

Sitting under the spell of living oaks,
dryad sits on a tree fallen and dead.
Through the canopy falls the sun's gold;
empathetic warmth and just so bright. 

She is dressed in a splendid mourning gown,
sewn with chlorophyll and splendors' fingers.
Her large green eyes are crystal-like;
scenes of a tree's life play within. 

Mist rises like fairy soldiers' ghosts
beneath her dainty and barefooted feet.
Tears merge into silent waterfalls
and her heart beats low like owl wings. 

A rustling puts a crack in the silence
and dryad looks down at the petite sound:
Leaves covered a seed, covered a growing tree;
nature is cycles, is fairy spuds to winter snow. 

And young tree sprouts where mother spring
and father sun foster new life.
Such lessons come to each dryad in youth;
they've come to her in this ephemeral light. 

A butterfly nearby takes to air,
its dazzle and frailty the wink of beauty's eye.
With compassion it alights upon dryad's shoulder;
a gesture of fresh happiness to a broken heart. 

Dryad slides from the lifeless oak,
aglow in the hue of newest wisdom.
She dances off to darker wood, and butterfly ascends;
reverie folds up and fades from her brightest eyes.


(From the books Kairos and Collected Poems)

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