Secret Bower

What a lovely place to play in

If only I could be six again.

What a lovely spot to sit and read

If only it was not raining!

Mountain Medicine

Peace seekers
Look not to the mountain stream
for solace and meditation.
Find rather, a still pond
with quiet colorful fish
and calm mirrored surface
for sky gazing
and deep remembering.

For the mountain stream
shouts with all her might,
breaking violently over rocks,
as she makes her way down slope.
No room for quiet thought
over the rush of fast white water.
 Ah, but in the roar, one may find
the blessing of forgetting.

New Wine

I trod the grapes at midnight

And, oh, it made a potent wine.

Yet more bitter than any cask

Drawn in more auspicious times.

I scorned to pluck the fruit

Warm on the midday vine.

I let it hang ‘til nightfall

When dew was heavy on the rind.

I washed it in a fountain

Fed by an icy spring

And spread it on the grass

To dry in the Stygian breeze.

I trampled it in darkness

And though the mash was sweet

The juice’s inky hue left

Purple stains upon my feet.

It fermented through the Autumn

Buried in fallen leaves.

I corked it when the moon was new

On a Cimmerian winter’s eve.

Drink sparingly of this vintage

Pressed in the absence of light.

Use it only for libations

Paid in the dead of night.