HIGH ABOVE THE RIDGE,
THE FOREST PANS-OUT,
AN ARMY FROZEN IN TIME/SPACE CONTINUUM.
MAJESTIC AND UNDAUNTED, THE CONFIDENT BEECHES ARE BOLD AND CONTORTED AS THE YOGI,
PRANAYAMA, LUNGS OF LIFE.
QUIET TREES STAND STIFF TO BREEZE,
GOSSIPY LEAVES EXCITE SHADOWS.
TINTED BY TIREDNESS, THE DAY FADES AND FLARES, ANTICIPATING LUNA'S SMILING LIGHT.
FOLDING, TWISTING, TURNING, FRAGILE LEAVES AND STEMS,
CONSTRAINED, CHANGED AND WILL-LESS, AS THE HUMAN SOUL AND BODY,
BENT BY THE WIND AND TIME.
Were the weir to cease rushing, my mind stop pushing, calm might then ensue and trap that which was captured by the pale, silver mirror upon my waking, a pallid moon-like countenance, enraptured by my sneeking, peeking, demise.
