Heart

Heart

The dawn comes to waken me to a new day dawning.

    Beams of sunlight across the pillow lay, flowing as the water falls.  Think you this be not a painting.  For only I can see this

  wondrous work of art.  Softly sleeping is she that holds my heart.  I stare down in wonder at this early morning sight.  Yet I wonder, what is this power that sleeps so softly next to me.

I sometimes wonder what would be my fate.  If not for her by my side; what would have I become.  Who would calm my rage that ravages my night.  Would I continue the sweat and pain of that which is my work.  Could I have lived at all with this poison in my veins; without her gentle hand which guided me each day.  Just one

flash as our eyes met.  I would have climbed the highest mountain for her with just a smile to give.

Yet years turn to decades, time has turned to sand.  What then will happen when the crystal glass is empty. Standing alone without her eyes upon me. Frightening to even think of one day passing.  Would I wish another breath of life to take, for she that shared it is no longer there 

So gentle be the touch of this mighty spirit.  Yet all the years had passed and I thought myself strong.  For it was not my strength that told me of this power.  It was the beams of the sun that flowed as the water fell, across the pillow next to me.  For there in that bright sunlight, was she who held my heart...

©2008 2011 Words the Windows to the Soul

Summer’s End

 Crisp be this air as this summer’s end draws near.  Trees with their leaves; nature’s voice be heard.  Wish they not for this ending.  Yet no hand stops the season from turning.  Song birds in the trees feel this cold; as does the tree, her branches all but empty.   Barren the tree stands without a single comfort.  She knows nothing can stop that which be summer’s end. The song birds know full well that they must seek warmth.  So on winged flight the music and the songs heard no longer.  On winged flight they escape from this which is the seasons’ turn.  Still man wishes not to see for he feels the unknown fear of the season’s turn.  Yet man and tree be different.  As when the tree, with its leaves dieing on the ground; the tree knows the leaves will return and bring their beauty to the tree.  Man knows that with each season’s turn, death comes ever nearer.  So like the tree, man will stand barren, empty, and alone.  Yet what of these awesome sights that passed, season to season; the everlasting memory of summer’s end

© 2009 2011 Words the Windows to the Soul..