You always remain
Asleep in yourself,
In your thoughts, your eternity
Are you like one of those lake birds
Standing one-footed on a rock
Watching the grayish-purple mist
Settling on the lake
While the rain dips your wings
In grace and melancholy.
And the wind, with hands like days,
Roll your feathered heart alternately
Between cold and warm gusts.
Longing is always there
Like a shimmering mist an autumn morning
Or a pair of wings beating against the canopy.
It speaks of home;
A glimpse of life under the frost,
Deer tracks in the midnight and gusts of wind
Too melancholy to listen to.
It sounds like the earth traveling through time
In circles of eternity humming
Like a human heart restlessly searching
For its twin.
A tender seasonal gust of leaves
Scoops my dreams up
And rush them through the ajar window.
A fine-toothed comb
Brushes through my knotted thoughts.
It is as though the morning is left
Sitting, half asleep, out there
On one of the distant isles with nothing
But a lighthouse to keep it
From leaning back into the darkness
Of the pre-autumnal night.
This is the heart of melancholy;
A wistful longing, a vague memory of safe harbor,
Scraped away by the rawness of beautiful sunny days.
A dream with one leg rooted in summer pasture
And one leg winged by the mystery of night.