xNicotinex

She is all here… Having bloomed from the dust of winters snow. Unlike Venus who rose upon a half shell, she has risen from the mossy banks of the rivers edge. The tendrils of her hair, float over the Earth, a veil. Queen of the May, your beauty astounds. The lithe petals yielding to the sun, is to touch your skin. The sanguine roses roving wild, is to see your lips. The chasm of precious stone, from which trickles the new stream, Is to hear your heart. May is a song, that croons intoxicated joy. It resonates like a sweetened breeze through every hill and dale. It is the bliss of youth, when the forest spirits recl

I was born under the new moon half into the season of Lughnasadh. My Mothers belly swollen with the yield of her first fruits. And for those chanting meditations from their book of hours, the prayer of Introit was being whispered into the late morning air. I am the child of the grain harvest when Summer draws her last breaths and the maids of the meadow spend the shortening day gathering and knotting bails of hay. I belong to the animals of the forest, collecting their autumn wares in preparation of their winter slumber, and to the bounty of the corn stalks that reach like golden fingers unto the face of my Father

The summer wanes and chill bites on the air. Her glory, so green, fades to duller shades. Down fall the crowns that make the trees so fair. In death the earth sings sighing serenades. No more the glories wrought of summer's dance, As death's cold fingers brush its fading face. Gone the hypnotic haze of freedom's trance, As sighing breath delivers up her grace. But in this yearly death of summer's thrill, From failing boughs, the fruit of nature's womb, Bring life from that which colder winds would chill, Making the future's cradle from this tomb.     In seeming death of nature's glory day,    &#

Had I been borne on autumn wind, I would have come no faster. As one who has too often sinned Will stand before her master, So came I, too, to sunset glow. The sun-and-hill collision Pulled me beneath its undertow. The burnt and golden vision Seemed overwrought for such as I, Who never once deserved The way you come to satisfy And leave me quite unnerved. Had I been borne on winter wind To meet you here tonight, My spirit might concede to bend To golden purple light. The mist that settles on these hills Obscure as days ahead Invades my skin, heartily fills My soul with ready dread. But oh, the peace of knowing leaves Tho

Oh you lovely good-bye girl Spinning me tales of blue-white summer joy We are curled in your attic dreaming to the endless rain and your jukebox that plays only old diner music you ask me if God has ever looked down on the earth and plucked someone away out of pity i tell you no and as i walk the muddy lane away from your house i feel inside my raincoat pocket and find your skeleton key i hear the jukebox and i hear the gun and i guess that i was wrong