Online Composer and Writer

I have an open window.
My computer sings softly to me of the work that is to be done today.
Yet I linger awhile to watch the green and blue shades outside.
Each tree so warmly rooted,
and yet vulnerable to man,
to his designs and his axes.
And I wonder at their courage at their splendor now...

When they were once seeds deep in the dark soil.
Unknown and yet knowing,
sheltered from the ravages that ages might yet bring them.
Perfect,
in their innocence,
and perfected by God.

God, who dwelt within them, and fired their love,
and opened their Hearts to the silence, of winter's soil,
and so embraced them in peace that they were moved to share good things with each other,
and and to speak of the new light above,
and to reach together,
from within their own joy,
to touch the goodness of the Earth,
to touch their own needs.
And with delicate grace take in the water,
that would swell their ardour for the sun,
and push them up to taste the wind.

I have been a tree.
I have sat for many ages in grand forests,
listening to the murmur of the young and old,
remembering both in my heart. -
Sometimes...

Sometimes,
I have spread my branches in compassion,
and given shelter to the homeless,
and opened my core to the creatures of the night,
who walk in my traces when all the strangers have gone,
and play in my depths while I am asleep,
and fashion strange shapes on my arms and my body,
that defy the reasoning mind of man...

Man who conjectures on two legs only and cannot feel me,
rarely tries to know me and only sometimes,
only moontimes will sit at my feet and hear me...

Sometimes,
I have felt fear in the sky and in the soil,
when light streaks and screams across the sky,
and the Earth rattles its bones in anger,
and I can no longer remember anything..
Some of my scares are long,
some hidden from insensitive gaze,
some unmercifully exposed to unkind and also to kind sight.
And on them I have felt the healing of a sister,
and of a brother too.

And sometimes,
goodtimes,
I have touched my own wounds,
and become one with the forrest again.
And sometimes,
goodtimes,
I have touched my own wounds,
and become one with the forrest again.

Ah. Sometimes I have stood alone on a mountain,
in my own silence,
warmed only by the sun,
needing to be just one.
Too full of the past to share,
too lost to be found,
and trusted only by an eagle,
who seeks clarity too, and too,
is strong enough,
to let the winds cleanse him..

Sometimes,
I have stood by fresh water,
and watched the geese find a home amongst the bushes,
and loved their symmetry,
and their call to peace,
as they fly heaven ward,
in perfect accord,
making circles and designs for man below to follow,
if they could,
sometime.

Sometimes I have forgotten.
Forgotten to watch,
to feel,
to fear,
to love,
to be angry.
Forgotten being small or being old,
forgotten the smell of the meadow,
or the thrust of life in springs fingertips,
or the light in the crystals that frost leaves as a gift to the dawn.
Or the sun's need of the moon to shine light at the earth at night.
Or my ancestry,
or my death.
And then all I can remember is to laugh,
to laugh at the full moon.