Sweet wood child
Faery of running sap and cattail wisps
To the coarser senses
Sing to me, elemental imp
Tickle my ears
With your light lays
Weave a spell of woodcraft
Quicken the arbor above
Caress my languishing spirit
In green delight.
Your melody seizes my soul
Unveiling before me
Every sylvan splendor.
When the trees are glossed in ice
and the sun glances through them with rising fire
They bat the light back and forth, a plaything
And I think
AAAAAAAAAAA THE TREES ARE SPARKLY!!!
Sorry. Poetry is just too grandiose, my brain can’t go there when all that’s running through my tiny mind are oh my fucking god the trees are sparkly, sparkles sparkles sparkles. I’ve regressed. Just in typing this, I’ve keyboard smashed so much that I accidentally opened up a bunch of weird windows for which I didn’t know there were keyboard hotkeys, like an HTML debugger. If it’s not what the sparkles have done to my brain, it’s what the cold has done to my fingers.
Here’s something random. My boyfriend writes songs for fun. Every once in a while I’ll sing one of his songs for him. Hopefully these blues will gently bring us all back down from the sparkle high.
I think there are giants outside
Trees with frozen fingers drag their unfeeling claws over my roof
Something clatters, rattles bangs.
The freezing rain has brought them.
Weather carries monsters in its wake.
When humans stay fearfully inside their homes,
Creatures of fancy cavort in the open air.
Winter attempts an advance against fall. To one side of the road, a cold snowscape of white-laced grass, two-tone evergreens, ancient gnarled branches softly pillowed with marshmallow, a study in black and white. To the other, fresh grass scattered with the discards of the glowy orange maple, the radiant yellow fingers of the gumball tree, the startling neon red of the burning bushes. Winter is gaining ground against the bounteous color, blotting out the many-hued lawns with pure white primer, heaping icing on the trees’ heads. The trees, still warm and flexible, shake the wet snow from their glorious manes, spattering sidewalk and pedestrian alike with gobs of slush. Dripping sounds off from all sides, in full stereo. Splat. Splat-splat. It was not the sky, but the trees which rained.
Ever she dances
Nature’s unconscious graces
Embrace all conflict
When Fall passes by
It brushes some trees on top
Some the bottom
Some the side.
Wherever a leaf has been touched
It quickly spreads.
The torch of Fall
They go graceful, as nature wills
They go with fire, one last glory
Immolating the world.
There is beauty in destruction
And the trees glow with it.
Into their own shade
Coloring the sidewalks
With a farewell kiss
Too soft for all senses