I once believed in the songs of meadowlarks
and the secret mists of early mornings.
And that the dreams of men might sail
on ardent breezes and rest in the gentleness
of a warm, springtime embrace.
I believed in the promise of seasons.
Each constant and unfurling in rhythmic measure,
forward flowing and building upwards
to mark against the vibrancy of youth itself
and the greenness of my eyes.
I waited and watched
as a lone caterpillar made it's long journey
across the page and to the edge of the earth.
All so that I might bring myself
at last to close the book.
Moment after moment was written and read
wandering from one turning page to the next
in search of some other place and time
and lost on a wish to be lulled
by some nourishing blindness.
And held by some warmer season.
Today I believe in skeletons.
In the depth of frozen ponds and the stillness of sound,
and as green fades to grey,
my once painted verses are swept away
to uncover the beautiful, fragile spines
of eternal moments.
Like tiny, intricate webs
to rest in my small hands.
And to sparkle forever in my eyes.