I think on the earths swinging moods, in storm thrown bark of foreign placement; perhaps the solar wind had ruffled her dress that day.
Great stones speak to me of patience, sediment by sediment; to fade slowly in dusty gusts.
Trees motion me to prostrate to their king of light; to all things under reign in warmth I relate on humbled knee.
Branched brown arms, green leafed fingers; I'm sure some caress my presence, though some push me to other paths and growth.
I feel solemnness between us as I call my leave; the mountain longs for words on oceans and what is it that replaces trees on flats beneath his gaze. And why it approaches so, with brother mist all brown and blackened.
I share my thoughts in lengths so little to one so lengthened in time. He knows that questions become answers on a growing path, and knows all leave is taken at the setting sun.
"You are welcome to tread here again soft skin, with your words and your listening roots."
mF
(C) MarkFlood2015 poem + image
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