Ancient Rhythm
Ancient music calls deep down in your soul.
It brings forth a light that burns your fears
and makes your heart never sleep.
It beckons a scent only an animal can follow
a need from the beginning of time.
It conjures a touch from inside your bones,
released through the prickly shafts of hair in a shiver.
Do you leave it all behind?
Do you jump off the vessel with the cracked hull?
Do you save your life from the fickle wind
that sucked all the honesty and joy out of the air?
Or do you stay and become a martyr
for the honor and loyalty of a promise?
Promises broken and reestablished so many times,
the wolf now cries
And the boy never becomes a man.
The strum comes from faraway lands,
a journey through pain and wisdom.
Its soft strings turn into pounding thoughts.
It refuses to be silenced or sent away.
It refuses to be forgotten.
A stirring in the dark once thought to be dead.
Lying awake willing, the longing away
turns into a battle between wrong and right.
Do you walk away from the years you grew too apathetic to leave?
Or do you stand by “for better or worse”
and sacrifice what is left of the second half of life?
The gift of love and touch one day only to hide
among the dark crevices of a cave the next.
Do you continue to play the game?
Or do you walk away from the cat even if he kills the mouse?
The power of an ancient man won’t wait forever.
It tempts and sends out a gravitational pull so strong
that even the purest of minds can’t resist.
A primal love that never dies but lies,
waiting until she decides to live and not repent.
Do you break a heart to free your spirit, even if
the ancient light dims and fades away?
By Daria Pardue
Lake Garret
Early morning sunbeams paint muted
reflections of bare oak branches and the needles of pines.
They reach to the other side,
trying to close the circle
they have been holding in time.
A splash disrupts the stillness
as the basking grey shell
of a turtle falls in for a swim.
Ripples of light now play tag
on the bark of the mottled Alder
while a sparrow starts to sing.
Flecks of mica flash down the rooted path
guiding the way and conjuring memories
of children collecting buckets of gold.
The frog and the honey bee
are still deep in their dreams.
But the peaceful slumber is no match
for the restlessness of undergrowth
and the changing sun.
Introverts slither to warm their scaly skin.
Geese honk and flap in their quest to create new life.
And squirrels punctuate the air with the flick of their tails.
Soon the parchment leaves will stop their shivering
and be pushed off by the daggers of unfurling green.
Apart from the evergreens and the cloudless sky,
the world is still beige and grey.
Empty acorns litter the spongy ground
and tall, tawny grass bows to the still crisp breeze.
Further down the wooded path,
There is a flash of buttery yellow
where beaver work has opened up the canopy,
making room for daffodils to sing their late-season song.
And just like that, winter is gone.