Out
On
The
Range
The
Angle
Of
The
Sun
Has
Changed,
Predicting
Clear
Weather,
Changing
Rough
Grasses
To
Gilded
Heather.
The
Mountain
Grey
Absorbs
The
Bright
Day
In
Tones
Of
Blue,
Reflecting
The
Sky’s
Hue,
As
In
Wonder,
I travel
Through.
Voyager
Out On The Range The Angle Of The Sun Has Changed, Predicting Clear Weather, Changing Rough Grasses To Gilded Heather. The Mountain Grey Absorbs The Bright Day In Tones Of Blue, Reflecting The Sky’s Hue, As In Wonder, I travel Through.
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Have You Seen The Frozen Tableaux We Call The Past, Moments That Last Through Every Season, Without Clear Reason? Random Scenes Caught In The Mind’s Netting, Beyond Forgetting, That Appear Year After Year, Still And Silent, To Extract The Cost Of Days Lost? Mantra
There’s Nothing Between Me And A Sea Of Doubt, Until I pour Out My Tea And Face The Day, Come What May. I am An Obscure Failure In The World Of Art, But In My Beating Heart I succeed, And That Is All I need. Eight AM
The Crow Does A Dance On A Dead Ever Green Branch, Cawing Its Contempt For A Tree So Unkempt. In Evening Dress Of Black, It Sways Forward And Back, Then Flies Away, Into The Burgeoning Day. Headed North
Lady Morning Wears A Chemise Of Grey, Sleepy From A Busy Yesterday. The Sun Is Reluctant To Rise Into Such Forbidding Skies, And Trees Huddle In The Park, Unable To Shake Off The Dark. I drive On, With Some Where To Go, Hoping As I climb Higher That It Doesn’t Snow. Day One
The Morning Sky Is A Streaky Pink Dream, That Gradually Fades To Clouds Of Cream, Then To Mixed Hues Of Varied Blues, As Any Perfect Day Will Do, For Humanity To Muddle Through. |
AuthorJeanette Collins Archives
March 2024
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