Mariella Hunt's Blog, page 26

The Hollow

There is a sacred hollow

Where the fireflies in play,

Can inspire a shattered heart

With hope for a new day.

Wind creeps between the branches

Of the trees stronger than time.

After rain, the ground sends up

A scent rich and sublime.

We venture there in daydreams

To escape the winter gray.

In the shelter of the trees

We all would like to stay.

Paralysis

Find me in the dead of night,

Curled up in my bed but Wading

Through the murky dregs of Sleep,

Gathered in a pool so deep.

Consciousness is breached.

The thing intangible that holds me,

And in waking hours consoles me,

Just out of my reach.

Hibernation

One bright afternoon, you see

Some wild birds in play.

If you remain silent,

You can make out what they say.

Sit here in the sunlight,

One bird says to her friend.

Because in a few short weeks,

This fair weather will end.

Soon comes hibernation,

The ritual of sleep.

As for you and me, there is

The southward trip we keep.

Winter frost will slither in

And this land will be dead.

So sit here and enjoy the sun

While leaves are overhead.

Shadows of Light

I feel that we’ve found a place

Where shadows are of light.

It’s the first time

I have not been frightened of the night.

Crickets on their leaves are singing

To the moon above.

Fireflies blink in and out

And watch the stars with love.

Weeping willow is a maiden

Crowned with silver hair.

She begins to sway in rhythm

To the chilly air.

I will stretch out on the grass

And smile myself to sleep.

We have found Elysian Fields

Where shadows cannot creep.

Cricketwaltz

Crickets have a preference for

The bush outside my door.

They’ve gathered there to make a song

I’ve never heard before.

If the stars had voices,

I would think they’d sound the same—

All abuzz with energy,

A summer night untame.

Wait! here come the fireflies.

And look at how they dance!

Choreographed perfectly,

A fairytale romance.

Now the breeze is picking up,

As if to harmonize.

It purifies the tune and sends it,

Perfect, to the skies.

If you go to sleep tonight,

You’ll miss the cricket-chants.

They only come this time of year.

Go outside and dance.

Meadowsong

Lower your voice in the garden.

Flowers have songs for the wise.

Sometimes you can hear them sing

To serenade the skies.

Lower your voice here, and listen.

This awareness will not hurt.

Here, the air is clean and you

Skip barefoot on the dirt.

One day, you’ll wish you had listened

When the Meadow tried to speak.

Life continues through the pause.

It doesn’t make you weak.

Lower your voice in the garden:

There’s more to life than the pain.

Hold your breath and take a step

And wait for it to rain.

The Golden Hour

Have you felt the chill of fall?

It’s come this way before.

See! it gathers over hills.

September comes once more.

Cooler mornings changing shifts

With eighty-degree days,

‘Til there comes October-land,

And sweater weather stays.

Nimble flowers bow their heads

And trees turn shades of gold.

Nothing lives that doesn’t rest:

This truth is sweet and old.

I feel the chill—my spirit stills

And seeks a warming hearth.

The golden hour has returned

To our part of the earth.

Dewsong

Meet me where the grass is fragrant

From the morning dew;

I have learned a melody

And want to sing to you.

It can’t be another place.

My voice won’t rise so high.

I won’t cater to a crowd;

I daren’t even try.

If you cannot meet me there,

The tune will slip away.

It will choose a stranger

Someplace else, another day.

The Whistler

A whistler claims the springtime air.

His rhythm stirs the water fair,

And swans, in envy, fly away,

Resigned to cry another day.

The whistler has no thing to mourn,

Unlike pedestrians forlorn.

For meadows come from storms of rain—

Small price for color we shall gain!

Dear whistler, never slow your tune.

Let it last through the afternoon,

And—if you please—into the night.

Your cheery song will set things right.

The Collector

I collect forgotten things:

Dusty books and memories,

Fallen leaves from slumbering trees,

Music no one else still sings.

I wear a coat of happy dust,

Reveling in the Ancient smell.

How could I refuse to tell

These tales old? I must.