Waking In The Woods
What a morning, sun;
by Nathaniel A.Wallace
This spot seemed such a nice alcove last night,
In the dark recesses of my mind,
Amongst the trees, but
As rolling thunder redounds
Off fisted stumps and carved seats
Razing away the sojourns of behind,
Daylight breaks between the leaves
Like the breaks of white in the waves by the sea;
Flies fluster mildewed air, and musk is mixing
Here in luminescent birdsong, wafting in the trees, there
Dancing in the breeze.
Sing along to it; the whim of the growths,
Like the reeds and water lilies;
Play along, O my heart, and mind
You, the genial current at the bottom of the stream.
Only drawling along do crawfish,
Know the secret, locomotive strain
Of said sepulchre, finding the sensuality of the sculptor
At the bottom of the stream;
Don't, dozing off, fight the early aeroplanes -
Against, diminished, retreating to the full
Extent of the grass, by the boots on my feet.
Sleep is, anyways, willed away by
The sound in the kettle, yet mine
Is the voice in the chime; The hills
Are the rustling, shimmering trees'
The flowers, like my pen,
Scratch the wood into thine.
While the honey of sound is the bustling bees'
The clouds yet wisp away the time,
So I go to;
Withstanding the sun, or full circling back,
Gravitas is my love in the glade on the line.