wild scaffold
On a rocky boulder,
creaks mahogany,
warped and rubbing against the stone it's fixed.
Cracking as the wind,
with its sweetening scent of the woods deep below,
gently caresses it.
At the top, a horizon
of far off lands, with lush greenery.
Reminiscing the times of an unknown past.
Sitting at the vestibule,
I endure the humid summer night.
Shutting my eyes I seek peace,
But I share with none,
the glimpses of a sweet, possibly a Mid-Sommar day.
A midsommar day,
of flowing blackwater rivers.
Of solid cliffs, laden with glowing mud,
akin to black till.
Of dried voluptous riverines,
with shapes too intricate,
to be hidden beneath a veil of water.
A midsommar day,
where sunflowers,
cloaking the tilled black soil beneath,
beautifully paint the horizon with it's yellow,
and where white figs hang like earrings,
to close to the branch,
yet noticeable.
A midsommar day,
of smiling dark cherries,
in clusters, amidst the bold leaves.
Almost as such to utter a word as they sway.
And of scorched boulders of rock,
as they continue to bask,
embedding itself within the smoky visage of the soul.
A midsommer day,
where a stalk of wheat dances
to the western winds.
In response to the ethereal calls of the redwing.
And as the farmer's dogs bark...
At sudden,
I am back at the vestibule,
bright summer morning burning my skin.
Dry air forced down the lungs.
Scorching heat cooking away old rotten dreams.
As I sit,
A strange autumn leaf sways in,
singed and burnt, I witness it burn away to oblivion,
under the searing Sun.
Leaving behind a scent quite subtle and unforgettable.
Just then another autumn leaf halts,
from it's long, untimely travels.
Sent by a far away tree. As it sent before.
I then wonder,
to usher it in or to lay ignorant,
as it shall, as it did once before,
catch fire and cease.
I stare into it,
as it too shall catch fire.
Witness it,
as I lay seated at the vestibule,
on a cold boulder.
manic axle
hot ledge
proper whale
merry hemlock
icy flame