Sculptured Willow of green silhouetted silk,
Host to a blackbird in full throated operatic flight,
Ceasing its song to trade alerts with its brother,
A call to refuse the end of day, this night.
“Be up with you, you, you, you, you” he cries,
Embers of the longest day fade from sight.
And while the light is still here, there are things to be seen, to be done,
To be seen to be done.
This revolution is not an end nor a beginning,
It is a circle in which we recycle,
Vitality recharged and inflamed, as a geyser erupts or volcano spits flame.
In the yellow heat of the fire’s flames,
We see new worlds birthed formed,
And merged and charged with life,
Till all energy is consumed and fuel expired
Sit beneath the quiet of the stars which you cannot hear roar,
Breath the air that is yours but will never be again,
Press soft bare flesh upon thorns and feel the pain,
Feel the existence that can only be yours,
Wheels spin within wheels,
Flames bring beginning and end
And while ever we circle stars,
We can only be who we are.