In years to come
when my bones are brittle...
Outside my window
a naked fig tree shivers...
As I walked over mossy plains
across much traveled rich terrains...
Night born skies
delivered within majestic fantasies...
Deep forest green gives way
to natures soft subtle hues...
Crystal lace adorns
skies of a darkening shade...
Mist spits its’ curse, tar-black thick
over the soot covered-shoots...
With oaken roots, an English rose did grow
from natures womb a noble tree was born...
Could which of nature's art, out-glow her grace?
Of silver specks in night, I start with ease...
I've been dead for years
then she leaned against my back...
Ethics
takes a nap...
If the azure glow of the ocean
is summers' own liquid crest...