Waiting, as if there were no sense of time,
It doesn’t move,
Nor give an indication of its mood.
It simply waits.
Resolve to be,
a force far greater than eternity,
where shifting dunes,
erase the tracks of man,
and turn back to sand the ancient ruins.
Its will, pervasive,
no quarter given for retreat.
If not the blowing sand and freezing nights,
Than the intensity of heat.
And at its edge, the sea,
where man can still not quench his thirst,
or find relief from the solar burst.
Not an End
Warm
soft fingers inter-twine,
Shoulders
snug against the pine,
As
echoes whisper through the trees,
Reminders
of the coming freeze.
The
autumn scent of burning leaves,
Its
memory in our knitted sleeves,
As
passing hours rouge our cheeks,
And
mallards call through graying steaks.
The
season signals not an end,
As
some may see in winter’s call, But friendship with its quiet blend, Of memories for another fall.
The Jewler’s Flair
Two
pearls are gathered in a catch,
You
know, no two completely match.
Each
a destiny to fulfill,
United
by “The Jeweler’s” skill.
What
brings these two to sit as one?
Like
melding raindrops in the sun.
Do
tickets come through random throws.
Or
does His plan create the rows?
Coincidence,
some skeptics say,
That
friendship chanced to come our way, But
I know what it is we share, Came
only through "The Jeweler’s" flair.
© William E. Stillman
Oh tidal mollusk, so
quickly you retreat within your Maginot.
Was
touch so cruel, that
walled seclusion is your only hope at
peace?
Please
do beware,time
has taught me much about seclusion’s snare.
I
too knew pain, but
found seclusion leaches beauty out of life.
I
gently stepped into
your world, with much respect.
Not
to alarm, but
to return through life the beauty you have shared.
I
find a peace, in
sharing joy with one whose beauty touches life.
Perhaps
some day, you
too will find a touch as peaceful to your soul.
The parchment, curled and
faded brown,
Its’ edges moist from
earth's last warmth,
reflects the rising light of
day.
Across the forest's carpet,
a forager animates these
brittle notes,
as here and there it
shuffles for a seed.
Their crackle echoes for an
instant,
as cleaved hoofs lightly
step,
from out the glade to golden
grain.
A shrill soprano sings its
lyric,
breezes shake the dormant
limbs,
and parchment notes fall
once again.
