#25wtT, a series (each stanza, 25 words)
This night,
we parliament of owls,
perched in boughs;
ones who find comfort
within the forest of those
who love us,
nest, thorn and rose.
Each morning I look for You in the east
as the forest looks toward the mill
wondering about stories to
be written on its pages.
Gather around,
the desert has become a garden.
The grapes are full again.
The master has dissolved into the plexus of his poetry.
So listen.
Between eyes and vistas are wind,
water and light.
True meaning hides within nature,
beyond touch, sound, and sight.
And all who behold – its archetype.
No longer amused by memories carried,
guided along familiar tracks,
satchel emptied, light in my step,
and the warmth of the sun on my back.
