In this continuum of days it has grown.
And all garb that is worn
In our land’s wild cloud-cast sky
Any possibility of variation is not
For all rightful parts on hand.
So I am glad of fog’s pathway
Taking my spirit to you
Unknown warmth-drawn thing lacking
In sorrow and drift- in your lasting room.
Rhythm is in motion again.
Upon your withdrawal it will light up,
Circadian hands cast shadows across
Your mournful shift from growth to fall
Murmurs to grown dawn.
Bring a kind of natural vow.
Wisdom says not to allow drowsy
Among this span of dormancy’s hanging stars
But a soul must pay-no truth
Has drawn angst in us in our past
To long lulls in misty bays, and limits
In grasp, difficult passing
From high spirit’s schoolings
And our lasting loyalty, cold in its pursuit
Of virtuous risk.
A word might allay our harsh storm,
But at that high basin’s point disbands
Clouds that rout with rocks
All who stand as participants
Parading through sunlit grasslands
Not only a though gloom was in no way looming
But as though watching birds had always known.