A pair of young strollers

Pleasant the sun,
To compliment the young strollers
Fit it not to turn
A heat’d glance scarce to burn
Nor induce discomfort
To allow and let live
Wind soft, rustling over the grass.
Scarce a sound does echo.
Fanning the mid morn
And bringing a sense of unknown
The noise. Outside. It does stay.
Far removed from the ears of the
Young strollers

To them only they exist
Moving along at a pace they set.
All the lives in front.
A sigh for the geriatric.
Oh time, which would but stop.
Cruel irony thus it jests.
They. Not a care in the world.
The problems are for others.
Afar. Stay afar. It has no transactions.

Be truth. The young strollers do enjoy.
A walk. Of pleasant environs.
The very air doeth conspire to
Fulfill that which often times
Remains but a fantasy.
Oh. That this was true. A reality far removed
But. It does possess a dream like evanescence.
The time. It flies. Waiting not. Tarry. Still.
The day is young. Sweet birdsong to encompass.
Troth, it does play the imp. Time. Flitting. Impatient.
On a will, slow, other times, it does run faster
Than a hare in pursuit.
And yet it affects not the fate of the young.
To but live in a knowledge secure.
That the night might draw its veil close.

Only to allow another dawn to rise.

Silence

Silence. The dawn awakens.
Hush. Now. It casts away the moonlit night.
A garment. Ill worn. Cast away. A decadence.
Waiting for the ephemeral first light
That would but tear itself out of the still quiet sky.
Casting away the sentinels.
Like dew. That fast disappears with dawn.
Awaken a grand scheme.
A moment in time. A quivering hope.
A moment awaits. Trees still.
To disturb… to destroy.
Be still. Calm stay my heart.
Or like the free bird escape now.
Atwitter. The sunrise.

That old hill far gone. Remembered. In dreams.
Where at first sight you were present.
Standing in the old cottage.
Ensconced all about. Your light a welcome in the night.
The mountain. Looming behind. Silent. Waiting. Watching.
All is quiet.
Awaken not. The sky, my soul. Rest. Becalm thee.
For tis the truth. That a unseemly word would destroy.
The night is yet old. The winter of its life. Enwrapped.

The night yet stays. Birds would sing, but late.
They in cozy dreams snug.
The dreams of nature. Collected anew.
Silence. Hush. Don’t break the glass.
Or else noise. Like an evil stain, spreads on the harvest.
Wrapping itself like a rag, hastily worn. Yet useless.
Silence. Quiet, preserve the magic. To observe.
To be one with nature.

Yet that which starts does end surely.
Silence. With an infinitesimal crack breaks.
Its broken shards as a memory lost. Fast replace.
Outward noise. Redone again.