I stopped at the very edge of the forest and slowly extended a hand towards the nearest tree. Its skin was strange—chunky, jagged, and craggy. I had never been close enough to one to see it in detail, so I was unprepared for such a texture. Fruit trees were confined within carefully secured orchards, and the few varieties of small, ornamental flowering trees—little more than bushes, really—that were allowed inside the Clearings all had skin that was more or less smooth with only an occasional bump in it.

Such recluse backdropped by evening's fields
all spiky white in bloom
for fear of treading bees, wander with care;
not one for wearing shoes.

Such mind enclosed, and wreathed in sun
its glow revealing dust
more threadbare each year do we find the couch,
yet find such things, we must.

My dear, in secrecy of thought
so silently, I should--
yet I cannot disrupt the quiet hum
or a weeping dove, disturb.

A vase of amber glass reflected
so kneel, and hemmed inside

Leaves dangle
Light lingers little
Birds are hushing
Sky blushes pale

Darkness falls
Stars gleam
Moon rises
Tree frogs sing

The night whispers
With early spring choir
The path is strewn
With fallen flower

Weary, worn, the world lays
Lonely, forlorn, the people pray
Steadfast, sturdy, the Father listens
Gentle, caring, the Father beckons

Fears are assured, rest falls
Upon the sheep gathered in fold
The Shepherd watches
The Shepherd stands
Along side the flock

Cricket, cricket, singing high,
watching as the clouds roll by,
leaping under dark'ning sky,
chirping at the fireside

Cricket, cricket, singing slow,
watching as the sun sinks low,
basking in the red-orange glow,
listening as the breezes blow

Cricket, cricket, singing fast,
singing as the world goes past,
singing in the shadows cast,
sing to make the evening last

mist hangs suspended
bewitching, elusive
drifts over the soybean field
reaching up from the neighbor’s lake
reaching, rising
a breath from a soul

the moon is a mirror
a sliver less than full
a mirror of your inside
warmth, wildness, wonder
and room to grow
its cool light echoes over the cool earth
a consolation
against the death of day

Here’s something random that jumped out of me the night before last, as I was sitting idly in the dining room, in front of my sister’s laptop, looking out the French doors and watching the day die… I figured it could be my July contribution. And for August, I’m going to have something revolutionary. See, the story goes…*deep breath*…my sisters and I won scholarships to participate in the Irish week at the summer music camp at the Augusta Heritage Center in West Virginia. So I’m going to write something little every day, about my experiences, and type it all up when we get home.