July 20 by The Running Son
why must it be
following pangs of birth comes bliss –
one moment’s recognition of holy worth,
to pain again; the innocent’s
bright hearts, shading, lower slowly
thin to earth, grating.
why must it be like this? –
this fading, clarity – the sunlight
permeating a darkness that, following
the sweet mist of day, comes calling
to sweep crisp clarity away?
black over white keys falling,
birch and black oak leaves blow,
foggy autumn groves do not say,
or explain, the dew-laden landings,
and grueling sprains, causing
new sprouts to grow.
by Jim Aldrich (:
.namaste. -• ö.tH(ink)Mÿstiç •- .namaste.