Saisons

Epilogue II

2008-12-12T04:32:00.006-06:00

Then so I am my father’s son.

Thus I was borne from a wood of cotton and height.

That she returns to me on each and every promise of spring for there is sincerity in my sway as she sits in solace beneath the comfort ability and canopy of my bustling coat of emerald leaves.

Older now that the silver threads of wisdom accent the wind in her hair, still she settles into the sanctuary of my hold and finding a particular page marked by a crumbling leaf of ocher she softly clears her throat and reads aloud from her tattered book of dreams…

“Once upon a time…”

…

finito

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2003

Epilogue I

2008-12-11T00:07:00.004-06:00

“All that we are is all that we leave behind.”

…

She returned on the promise of spring.

Her heart overflowing with anticipation as she skipped along the sandbar and yet nestled to her breast was not her familiar book of dreams but a sapling of which she had nursed all winter long from the keepsake of green she had plucked from his heartwood. So proud was she of her endeavor that she gingerly carried the sprout within her bosom as if it were a child of her own.

Thus ecstatic with her accomplishment she rounded the river’s bend rambunctiously stirring the morning’s mists into awakening with her bare feet and yet she was not greeted by the bustling sound of his coat and leaves but rather the silence and echoing poetry of their summer’s past. Then so her enthusiasms were muddled by her confusions.

What stood before her was barely a ghost of itself. Its once bountiful limbs and green canopy had been stripped and now laid strewn, windblown and broken. The stoutness of it’s trunk of heartwood had become desiccated, writhe and hollow. Then so what were once the muscling roots that sank deep into its mother’s earth were now merely gnarled, shrunken and withdrawn.

Thus she knelt before his memory and kindly placed the plantlet respectfully within the weathered arms of its fathers hold. Then covering its tender roots gently with mother’s earth that whether it was the meadow’s dew or the mourning in her eyes, she lovingly watered its destiny and dreaming with the somber tears of her heart's…

Remorse.

…

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2003

Hiver - Act IV Scene VI

2008-12-10T06:48:00.007-06:00

The sun king stokes a flame.

Stirring the embers of his furnace he prepares for battle with winter’s queen that her season may pass into the beginnings of spring. A futile fight for her majesty and yet her vanity is so employed as to not to want to see her beauty and work slip silently through her fingers, yet it is still the will of the mother that all things seasonal must pass that they can complete the circle and sustain the continuity of life.

As prideful as the sun king may be, he is not so brash that he steps humbly from behind the quilts and cover of clouds and lays a gentleness of warmth down upon the meadow. Thus the frozen river creaks with life as the weight of ice melts slowly from it bank’s reeds, the snow softens and sinks silently into mother’s earth nourishing the seeds of revival of which were sown so many months before.

Despite the sun king’s gentle gesture, her majesty is livid to see her work and beauty undone that she unleashes her northerly March winds to lay down a frost of lament to hamper and halt this rebellion of renaissance. Howling like wolves these remnants of her wintry touch wreck havoc and terror throughout the night holding her beauty in a temporary frozen stasis.

Yet the sun king rises with the same confidence that her majesty had once held and caresses the meadow again with the warmth of his touch. The northerly winds turn tail as the soft southern breeze quietly melts the evening’s frost. Then so the cycle continues day and night until at last the glade glistens with not but the sun king’s morning dew.

Where as the birds sing summoning the animals from their shelters and the wildflowers bloom with water color once more. The river runs wild as the reeds whistle their songs of serenity, and yet silently standing amidst the jubilant celebration of spring’s rejuvenation is a hollow and heartbroken husk of what was once a wood…

Of cotton and height.

…

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2003

Hiver - Act IV Scene V

2008-12-08T13:23:00.003-06:00

“Such is destiny…

That my fate has taken care of itself. Therefore despite all my knowledge and wisdom or even my sins forgiven time’s passage does not bargain with ones wealth. Mayhap destiny’s destinations have mislead my expectations that my fate may be perceived less than kind, that my idealism it seams has been not more than a dream as the folly of my heart has lead me blind.

Thus this time without you has left me askew that my days have seemingly shortened, and yet I find no relief from night’s incessant increase that it only amends my misfortune. Then so the mind of my wander has lost the will of it’s ponder that its reason has been replaced by madness, as my time elapsed is only surpassed by reminiscent melancholy and sadness.

Yet as my lucidity turns to dream I play out my life’s theme that perhaps my time was not unlike a season, therefore I compare the virtues of such affair might that it give my circumstance reason. Then so I spite winter’s chill that she has hardened my will to hold on to this concept of dreaming, that were it not for you I would not know of love’s truth thus you gave my season a meaning.

Then in solace I sleep with in your heart’s keep that my price for eternity is paid, knowing to live on in you is immortality’s truth and thus my soul is saved. Has winter’s touch turned me to stone that in love with you I die alone and so I am returned to my mother, it can never be said that my soul does not still live even though my body perishes in the arms…

Of another.”

…

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2003

Hiver - Act IV Scene IV

2008-11-24T05:50:00.002-06:00

Thus her chill had set into the bone.

That the days have passed into weeks, weeks into months until we are found at the heart of her muster that she is secure upon her January’s hold. Might that the thawing of March winds not be far away, they are but hers to conduct now as she pleases, and she so pleases to maintain her icy grip with even the slightest gust of their relentless chill.

But today she is confident and the winds were calm as the crows searched for nourishment on the glassy knolls of the once green glade, still cautious as that one never knew when she might get a bustle up her skirt of icing mists and lay down another depth of unforgiving snow. But today she was secure and comfortably cold sitting upon January’s frozen throne thus she was confident.

The river was frozen over bank to bank, as like a jeweled mirror glistening for her vanity it lay placid and seemingly dormant except for the icy mists which swept silently over its surface. Yet if one were to take stroll across the solidity of its icy enclosure they could still see it freezing and flowing beneath its ice-covered surface, perchance they to even hear the magical murmur of its music softened by wither herself.

The skies were gray and overcast that the sun king still played the voyeur, not yet had he gathered his bravery enough to lay his kiss full on her majesty’s frosted lips. Yet the clouds were not threatening but merely a shade of melancholy that there was a certain kind of peacefulness and serenity that circulated briskly throughout the silence of the frozen meadow.

Then so it was as she sat upon her throne…

Confidently.

…

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2003

Hiver - Act IV Scene III

2008-11-23T07:14:00.004-06:00

“Northern star where ever you are…

I seek your wisdoms light; to guide me through this night of blue as my hope does waver in sight. This song I follow has left me hollow that I do not know if it is her wind or my heart. Wherefore I fear to have lost my endeared as the light her memory has been overshadowed by the jealousy of your mistress’s frigid rampart.

Therefore should I accept these bitter terms despite how the fire in my heart burns and yet I cannot deny the solitude of my situation, when I was once content with my circumstance had I never known romance that now my heart aches with pain and frustration? That this cold tempts me I feel to bend to wintered will might that she lull me into her bed of hibernation, where upon my heart would be cost at the price of my love lost to the deep sleep of my will’s deprivation.

Thus winsome star I impart the plight of my heart, although some say it is strong might I have given too much away. For I feel my strength wane mayhap I have achieved a mortal plane where as my own immortality does fade. Thus has this all been a dreaming as subconscious of seeming a thinking I thought meant to be, and that she will never return no matter how high my flame burns as how could even I find a way back to reverie.

If it is truth that you have spoken then so it is my will which has been broken thus your mistress has cast ‘pon me cold spell. Thus hopes flame does dwindle for it is without rekindle that even this dire distance has helped do her work well. Might hope be a state of mind it is of not my being that I find there is left is there is nothing to leave, therefore what I have found may that these forests resound with the hurt in my heart as I…

Grieve.”

…

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2003

Hiver - Act IV Scene II

2008-11-11T01:37:00.003-06:00

Thus winter lay down her blanket of white.

Might she be as brash as the sun king himself, winter did so like to make an entrance; then settling quaintly back into her solstice’s chair quietly that she did like to admire her own beauty. Thus her frigid winds song became more of a whispering reminder of the warmth of days gone by. Still she possessed a vanity to be rivaled as well as reckoned with that the once lush green of the meadow now sparkled with the sculptured beauty of her crystalline kiss.

Not to diminish the potency of her icy touch, the river itself which once ran wide and wild had become not more than a trickle of quietude encased between sheets of its own frozen reflection; just as the warmth and malleability of its sandbars had become hard and focused with frost. No more were the reeds that lined the banks with their limberness the flutes that once whistled in the wind, as now their songs were muted as they stood like nickel plated piccolos held in frigid repose.

The watercolor of wildflowers had been replaced by the small swirling mists of snow and flake that their scent was merely a memory of sweetness as their fragrance hung frozen in the chill air. Still the trees retained a small sanctuary for those that huddled within their holds, even as their own limbs, once bustling coats of green had been stripped naked by the fall that they were now laden silent with the wintry icings of white and shimmering crystal.

Thus nothing escapes or goes untouched by the grandeur of her arrival, and yet even as her vanity sparkles boisterously by day, it glistens silently…

By night.

…

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2003

Hiver - Act IV Scene I

2008-11-10T07:59:00.008-06:00

“Even in the distance I can feel you pull away
as the warmth is fading from my arms,
that I am embraced with tender despair for I love you still.
Most powerfully, passionately, painfully -
The things you say, the things you do, the way you move,
yet it is only in my heart that time stands still
as I ponder how long it will be
- Before you miss me?”

...

“So despair, my old friend.

That we meet again upon my lost love and stem. Thus pile your frosts heavy upon my bough; for ‘tis no more weight than my heart bears now, and drive your snows up my trunk in vain that there is not enough cold to numb this pain. Let your northern winds sing their songs forsaken as they are merely the sounds of this ones heart breaking.

Might you harden the ground of my root you surround yet they are set deep in the earth of my mother, think you to break my will I would defy you still as I feel of the hope of another. Thus I refuse your season of sleep think you to lure me in deep, what use to dream when I am already in the dreaming. Yet may my dream have become lost I will not forfeit your cost as my heart’s hope still lies in the believing.

For where there was warmth in her arms I find only bitterness in yours thus your touch be it not so cold, for I hang onto the memory of the song of her voice when yours has grown repetitive and old. Thus your wintry lament is vastly misspent think you to lull me to sleep the same, as my heartwood formidably endeared by its own flame I adhere knowing I shall see her 'gain…

Someday.”

…

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2003

Automne - Act III Scene VI

2008-10-15T04:42:00.008-05:00

She awoke to the sound of owl song.

Thus she had slept the day away under the comfort of his watch that the twilight was now upon them. Stretching her arms she laid back into his hold pulling the quilt of leaves around her as there was a chill in the evening’s air, and laying back into the naked sanctuary of his limbs she found herself in a consciousness of content as she listened to the melancholy within the nocturnal song.

Then so the remnants of his coat rustled gently in the evening’s breeze producing a haunting harmony of beautiful sadness that such was this longing in their accord that the twilight itself took on the very essence of their dreaming. Still there was urgency to the moment as the sun king slipped silently beneath their events horizon, thus the wind wrapped his limbs around her for he did not want to let the moment go.

Was it the evening’s star which glistened in the window of her soul or a tear that there was no “good” in good bye, and yet could he have only spoken the words would he have said good night. Then suddenly as last light failed, she reached up as if to pull the arrow from his heart and snapped off his last stem of green. A keepsake perhaps as she broke free of his hold and dashed off into the nightfall disappearing from his sight and yet in the distance he thought he heard her cry…

“I love you.”

…

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2003

Automne - Act III Scene V

2008-10-14T05:47:00.003-05:00

The sun king moved listlessly across sky.

Stealth fully hiding behind the lazily drifting clouds of lavender and gray. Might he peek out from behind them occasionally as a reassurance that he had not been forgotten, he would then settle sullenly back into his throne to mope away the day.

Now time passed as time does as time is and shall ever be, either hindered by expectations or accelerated by anticipation depending upon what one’s probabilities may be. In actuality the sands of time flow faster than what the fates have already predestined them to be. Time is no more than an illusion, a paradox of itself.

Created by the fates to test, to tempt, to confuse and even corrupt, therefore to deter and destroy hope for the sake of their amusement. Thus when the last grain of sand should begin to fall it would seem to teeter at the edge of eternity’s abyss…Timelessly, and then topple like the crushing boulder of finality which it is.

Thus the sun king moved listlessly across sky that the day loitered along languidly. Where as this ageless tree of cotton and wood was filled with a sense of dread and inevitability that he was caught between his own hope and heartache. Therefore as he traversed this tepid river of time it was not unlike holding ones breath that he was only waiting…

To drown.

...

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2003

Automne - Act III Scene IV

2008-10-13T02:52:00.006-05:00

Her words were soft yet somber.

Yet they did not distill the melancholy within his heart as the foreboding scent of winter was in the air that e knew first frost was not but a morning’s due away.

Therefore their time together seemed no more the luxury that it had once been, but rather an imperative of precious moments. Thus as he looked down upon his ward his heartwood shuddered with an unfamiliar ache of longing. Therefore he began to question the constitution of his own dreaming that this fragile vision of innocence which now lay warm and safe beneath the colorful quilt of his leaves might well have been an unconscious able wish of his heart.

Where upon he did never want to awaken again.

Thus he rationalized.

“Such is the elevation of my heart that it rides upon the wings of your words, thus despite the distance of our seasons they have felt like mere moments than our years. Mayhap it is the dream more so than the dreaming and yet I am not the one to say, still I know the truth in believing is faith undeceiving that tomorrow is another day. But I must confess that I feel winters caress as she lures me into her season of slumber, therefore I am awake of that there can be no mistake yet this aching in my heart leads me to wonder.”

He awkwardly appealed to his senses.

Yet even then did his vision stir quietly beneath the comfort of his quilt and looked up at him with the same longing in her eyes did plead softly in a gentlest tone…

“Hold me.”

…

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2003

Automne - Act III Scene III

2008-10-10T08:03:00.011-05:00

He was surrounded by the spoils of his own treasure.

That she jumps heartily into the fallen leaves of his lap, tossing the multi-colored gems into the air and giggling as they fluttered back down into her hair. Still as she looked lovingly into the autumn of his eyes, she sensed the disquiet within his newfound nakedness. Not so much a self-consciousness but an apprehension as is to awaken from a dream.

“Old soul.” She thought.

“There is beauty in your sadness as there is treasure in your fall, as you have surrounded me with an autumn of your tears. What once was gold is now merely golden of time I will always endear. Thus heed not the winds as they lament of hearts broken, rather that they should sing sonnets of the moments we shared. As it is not so much about the dream but the dreaming, nor your shade…

But the shadow of our years.”

She thought.

Curling up in his gilded leaves she fell soundly asleep.

…

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2003

Automne - Act III Scene II

2008-10-09T07:46:00.007-05:00

Thus we collect sentimental stores.

Gathering the kindling of our hearts which will keep us warm through out the cold of winter and hopeful during those nights when we find ourselves without. Stored them deep within these chambers live the most intimate moments of our memories, where upon we immortalize the ones we love wit in the depths of our very hearts.

Just as I pass this tale down to you.

Then so what is the intimacy of life other than we are compelled to seek out that common sadness of companionship, the sharing of our hopes and dreams as well as the empathy of our tears and laughter. That for some unexplained reason we are born incomplete as we are subconsciously obsessed and driven to seek out the missing mutuality of our souls.

Thus we would rather die alone in love than perish in the arms of another.

Therefore the consciousness of loss is the reason we love, thus defining the line between reminiscence and regret. For you cannot have one without the other that it would upset the balance of my Mother’s nature. Still the fact remains, we do not always want to let go of what it is we cannot always hold on to. This does not necessarily mean they do not wish to stay, but rather that the truth of love is the ability to be able to set it free.

Just as there is a certain kind of beauty when a dove…

Is released from the palm of your hand.

…

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2003

Automne - Act III Scene I

2008-10-08T04:02:00.009-05:00

“Such was the elevation of my heart;
That it rode ‘pon the wings of your words
Yet there was no “good” in good-bye; thus we said good night
When all I needed was to hear you say
- “I love you.”

...

Such is the season of wither…

The trees once bustling with emeralds of green have begun to rust with ocher and umber. Just as the meadow which was once woven with the watercolor of wildflowers, ages like an oil painting gone golden with time. The skies of blue and beyond are now tainted with subtle shades of gray; that even the sun king himself has had his pride subdued. Even the birds know that nothing is forever as there are none to sing today.

Thus the recklessness of summer passes into memory.

Still there is quietude about the meadow, a serenity of peacefulness that only autumn can bring. Might the trees be shedding their coast, they have merely replaced the water color of the wildflowers with their multi-colored leaves which dance and spin like carousels in the wind, therefore creating a lively and panoramic bookmark of the passage of time.

Umberings of motherless children.

Thus they scampered wildly throughout the meadow, strewn gently along only by slightest breeze and the heart and soul of a little girl who picks one particularly lonesome leaf up and places it cautiously and yet lovingly between the pages …

Of her book of dreams.

…

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2003

Été - Act II Scene VI

2008-10-07T04:41:00.007-05:00

Thus their time passed.

From the joyfulness of June, through the jubilance of July into the begrudging heated of August - until one day the winds changed direction. Even the obstinate sun king shuddered at the inevitable alteration for he knew that for all his fiery magnificence and grandeur not even he could stop the seasons of change.

Of course being a wood of cotton and height for many a year, again his coat of leaves shivered with premonition for he felt the transformation upon him. Soon his rustling coat of green would begin to umber, changing to ocher and brightening to gold. The strength of his stem would weaken as they withered, becoming brittle and frail as the color of his coat of leaves harbingered the fall.

Still she returned to him each day. Seemingly oblivious to the change in the wind she welcomed the relief from the hot August days. Yet despite the mild change in atmosphere she still curled up into the crook of his trunk and resided serenely in the shade and sanctity of his limbs hold as she had done everyday since finding the pathway to his heart.

Some might say there is a solacet to be found in “not knowing” while others would vouch there is only despair to be lost within the unknown. Still for a wood of cotton and height of whom had stood for many a year “knowing” was all he knew. Hence it was not so much the winds of fate that sent an unsettling chill through his shivering limbs, but the designs of destiny that he could not alter the season of his change.

Thus as it was with infatuation then so it must be with regret, that even now his heartwood trembled with the bitter sweetness of lament. For his intuition told him that he was counting the moments unto the day…

That he would miss her.

…

Été - Act II Scene V

2008-10-06T04:50:00.004-05:00

The meadow was alive with the magic in his heart.

As he blossomed with the fulfillment of happiness he bloomed of lathering flower; tiny tufts of cotton that burst with budding silk and sensuality. They danced upon the wind with a delightful delirium. Swirling and whirling around her with an enchantment of fairy folk that they whimsically covered her in a blanket of his summer’s snow, as these were the tears of his joy.

As perplexing as they were playful the whimsical little wisps cuddled and coddled and teased her tenderly. Kissing her cheek as they tickled her nose until somewhere between her dream and his dreaming she slipped slightly out of slumber and opened an eye.

“Fairies.” She giggled.

Thus covered in cotton she smiled softly, then curling even deeper into his embrace she slipped silently back into her sanctity of slumber with anewfound security wherefore he held her that he would hold her forever.

If ever he was destined to hold her at all.

...

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2003

Été - Act II Scene IV

2008-10-03T00:46:00.002-05:00

The sun king flared with jealousy.

That such was his obstinacy that he bore down with an unseasonable heat and envy that he might muster the attention he believed he was owed.

Still the canopy of leaves seemingly enveloped an endless sky as the clouds appeared to stretch seamlessly from here to beyond. Thus the lucidity of her observation was obscured only by the serenity of her situation. Then so she was lulled by the whisperings of his leaves and the coolness of his shadow as she fell once again under the spell of his dreaming.

Bathed in an aura of shifting light, his new ward was the epiphany of even his own dreaming that she lay curled up confidently in the clover. Should that all his dreams be as corporeal that he could he bear witness to his watch. That it isn’t reasonable to realize what they had until it’s gone but rather to know what it is they haven’t wherefore they understand what it is they have to lose.

Therefore despite all the years of wisdom he had accrued, that no matter how logically he had painstakingly plotted out the course of his life; he would never have foreseen the fate of his heart. Conceivably destiny is blind, and yet it was by her own heart that she had followed the pathway to his.

Perhaps it isn’t always necessarily about the dream as it is about the dreaming; hence for how guilty is the fool who follows his heart…

When he might catch a falling star.

…

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2003

Été - Act II Scene III

2008-10-02T04:39:00.007-05:00

Interesting enough his coat of leaves shivered intriguingly with an intuition, although not accustomed to such infatuation he had not become a wood of cotton and height for many a year without developing a sense of discriminating perception and insight.

Mayhap his insights would well become his hindsight that there is very little foresight involved in matters of the heart, for one cannot always choose the pathway of ones heart that it isn’t so much a following but a leading there of.

Thus he regarded.

“As I instigate to think I have instilled a thought might the matter have passed into reflection, that such is my thinking that this thoughtful distinction is a moment of fleeting affection. Still my thinking my own had that I thought would I have known that this knowledge in truth is revelation, for to think is to know thus this thought as it grows is in actuality my own infatuation. Yet I cannot assimilate this pain that accommodates these thoughts that I know such are true. For suddenly I fear this thought that I hold dear, is that I cannot bear…

The thinking of losing you.”

He thought.

Ironically his coat of leaves began to shiver again…

Except at his own premonition.

…

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2003

Été - Act II Scene II

2008-10-01T03:22:00.013-05:00

The morning dew felt good upon her feet.

As the sun rose into the heat of its day she would lie back in the coolness of the clover and recite her heart for the wind, and as the day would wane she would look up into the sifting shards of light as if to gaze into his eyes and ponder the condition of her comforts ability.

“Old soul.” She thought.

“Where are my words are they lost on the wind that suddenly ours have gone still. For I have found myself in the comfort of your silence as your hold on my heart is my will. Your sway is soothing your whispers are warm and there is no place rather I’d be. As surely as I am caught beneath your dreaming I contemplate do you dream of me? Yet if your dream is a wish of a kiss have you missed then your dreaming has certainly come true. For of all the wishes of the kisses I’ve missed…

Know I have dreamt them all of you.”

She thought.

Then closing her eyes, fell asleep to the song of his heart.

…

© Charles Coakley Simpson 2003

Été - Act II Scene I

2008-09-30T05:24:00.011-05:00

“Were only I a blade of grass
That I could be laden in your morning’s dew.
Such a soft gentle caress that it would be my awakening,
for never did I know I could be more than I was
until I was touched by the warmth
- Of you.”

…

Such is the courtship of spring.

Then so is the commitment of summer as June is a time when lover’s hearts are full in bloom. Might April’s showers have begotten May’s flowers, when the days grow longer hearts grow fonder and what were once the buds of infatuation blossom into gardens of amour.

Summer is the prestige of the magic that was spring. Careless skies become endless and blue as the wildling winds blow gently and jovial; and the sun awakened stirs as he wrests his self from a quilt of clouds.

He sits high in his throne, the harbinger of light and life he generously bestows his warmth upon the land. The fields swoon with gold as the forests sway with glory, and still he is prideful that neither shade nor shadow can escape his temperate touch. All save the sanctuary of solace found beneath the rustling coat of a wood of cotton and height.

Thus she came to him again that day.

Printemps - Act I Scene VI

2008-09-29T08:35:00.011-05:00

“As rivers do run to the ocean
thus into the sea.
Then so do tears fall endeared
as mine do flow for thee.
There were moments thus as tender
as moments thus were kind,
that within mine heart
lies ember’s spark
forsooth it still burns for thine.

As mountains aspire to heaven
therefore unto the sky.
What for are dreams unredeemed
when stars are still too high.
Thus if dreams were meant for lovers,
is love then meant for fools,
what fool would I be
were I to dream of thee
whose skies are filled of jewels.

Were you an ocean I would sail
to find your seventh sea
Or e’en a mountain could I scale
that I might be with thee.
If a star is too high I would learn to fly
might one fall I would wish,
‘pon the death of a star
lies the hope of mine heart
might e’en it to be my final kiss.”

Her words fell upon him like summer’s rain.

As warm as they were, they were wanting and a beautiful sadness washed over him. He was overcome by the melody and melancholy in her muse that he shivered with an enlightenment of his own being of loneliness for he had never known what it was that he had hadn’t.

Therefore stretching his limbs to the wind he embraced her song, and so it was that she had given his heart the wings of which to fly. For suddenly the skies which had once seemed so far away were almost within his grasp that even now he longed for the stars.

Such was the will to love and to be loved hidden within the confines of her words that her heart was like a pebble polished by her longing. Concealed beneath the currents of longing that it beckoned to the sun…

“Touch me… For I am poetry in waiting.”

Printemps - Act I Scene V

2007-12-11T12:19:00.003-06:00

There was substance to the winds cause.

She had found a refuge of tranquility within this hold that she was comfortable and content. Here beneath the ballet of branches and lilting light was a magical haven of hope and harmony. Such is the essence of all reverie, that it was reminiscent of the sanctuary within her own dreams. Might that her own were only the wishes of her heart; perhaps it was here they would come true.

She withdrew the book from her pocket and began thumbing tenderly through the tanned pages in search of a particular dream. Each page well read and lovingly worn that some were tattered and others were torn, and though loosely held as they did want to fall apart they were still bound together by one heart.

A potpourri of poetry and passion; some did task her heart while others did raise her hope and yet none were more precious than the other that each was lovingly bookmarked with the scented memory of a withering flower. Thus as she browsed the pages of her heart it wasn’t so much a particular dream she was pining for, but that she was simply in love with the dreaming.

Suddenly a particular flower slipped from the pages unexpectedly and fate fell softly into her lap. Such were the moments of her heart as bookmarked that her eye sparkled with a tear of recollection as she recognized the faded memory.

Fair and fragile that it was, she picked the flower up gently and examined the moment. Here upon was a time she was filled with the warmth and wonderment of love, for there is no greater feeling than the being of wanted. Perhaps it had slipped through her fingers for no more reason than it wasn’t meant to be, still it was an ember which warmed her heart could that she only rekindle the flame.

Thus she read for the wind

Printemps - Act I Scene IV

2007-12-10T06:28:00.004-06:00

She felt sincerity in his sway.

His shade was filled with solace that she was compelled to sink softly into the serenity of his lap, and stretching out in the clover she was captivated by the daylight dancing through his coat of leaves. Like the birds that had lit upon him with familiarity she had the sensation of having been here before. Thus her day was inspired by his dreams.

As like a baby bird who had found her way home, she was enveloped by the quietude of her surroundings and nested innocently into the security of his fold. Her warmth found its way through him that her touch was as like a summer’s day, and though he was tempered by time and tribulation, he shivered with modesty.

His heart drawn to her light, he was filled with hope and anticipation. Still as the moment before a kiss takes flight, he was unprepared for her hearts expectation. That the winds seemed to lift up his limbs as if to encompass the moment of her day, whispering softly into her ear she thought she did hear…

“Stay.”

Printemps - Act I Scene III

2007-12-09T07:13:00.004-06:00

Silently he returned her gaze.

There was a spark of wonderment in her eyes as her vision climbed the height of his stature, and a shiver of modesty ran through him like a winter chill. He was not accustomed to such admiring scrutiny by a wilding flower like herself, so much so as he believed it was the way of things to be all that you are or may be as that is what one is.

“Little bauble.” he thought.

“Tiny trinket of tenderness’ treasure your eyes do sparkle beyond my measure. Your heart is a song like a whimsical wind that it is to you that I do bend. I know not why or whence you’ve come that my inquisitiveness is particularly undone, and yet to question destiny might be to undo this fate as I sense my soul illuminate. For suddenly my skies are taller than I and to you I cannot impart that if I were a bird I think I could fly and yet there is not enough heaven to hold my heart.

Thus I am humbly at your service.”

He stretched his limbs to the wind and rustled his coat of leaves, and being a wood of his word he laid down a comfort of shade.

A knowing smile spread across her face.

Printemps - Act I Scene II

2007-12-08T19:11:00.004-06:00

She was a waif of heart.

A virtue, a vision, and an idiom of innocence she skipped upon a sandbar blissfully barefoot. She tested the water's warmth with the tip of her toe; then, humming a tune of satisfaction, she splashed along the shallows in search of her day.

Who is this little sprite, he thought, no bigger than a teacup; yet her heart is brimming with gold. Is she lost of lonely, he conceived, then he though the better of it and digressed as the music of her laughter played softly upon his heart. Perhaps she is of fairy folk or mayhap

Intrigued he was thus smitten.

She wandered up the bank merrily gathering wildflowers meticulously and placed them in a book which she held close to her heart. It was as if each blossom was an answer to a wish that she lovingly pressed them between each browning page of parchment. Thus her heart was filled with dreams.

Now perhaps it was a design of destiny or maybe she was only following the thread of her fate, but as she combed the ground for the answers to her dreams she casually and yet unconsciously but more specifically accidentally, tripped upon a root and stumbled into the pathway of his heart.

She looked up at him with grand curiosity.

Printemps - Act I Scene I

2007-12-07T07:27:00.005-06:00

“Speak to me in colors
That tinted are the windows to your soul
Might that I marvel in the mystery
As it skirts ‘cross their pond
Yet stilled are the words; as they lie like copper
‘Pon this tongue tarnished
For I cannot find them enough to say
- “I love you.””

…

Such was his awakening -

That she came to him on the promise of spring.

The Ides of March are times of fleeting winds and thawing snow, while rivers break free from their icy bonds to flow again. The air weighs heavy with scents of sweetening clover as wildflowers spring upon hill sides, and greening grass is a meadow's bouquet to he who has slept his winter away.

He stretched his limbs to the wind and rustled his coat of new leaves, the sun warm upon his bark as he felt new growth welling within him. Digging his roots deep into the soil reaffirmed his stand as he found the fountain of springs that run beneath him. He fed upon their immortality and was filled with life's buoyancy.

He then bloomed with pride and blossomed with majesty, a swagger in his sway as birds lit upon him with fond familiarity. They breasted their song, as if to trumpet their king into his court, while meadows came to life with sound and the soul of his mother's nature…

Stilled only by laughter.

Prologue II

2007-12-07T06:46:00.003-06:00

Now all good tales should begin with a beginning, such as "Once upon a time" that upon a time there once was. Without beginnings there can be no means to its end. It might have been a "happily ever after” consequently, endings do not necessarily signify finality and one himself might be enlightened enough to be left with a promise of tomorrow.

Cold March winds would feel good rushing through my leaves, for I know they are the promise of spring's cool, rejuvenating rain; just as April showers bring forth May flowers are simply a portent of June's summer warmth and wonder. Autumn is a pledge of relief from August's heat and December's first winter snow brings about January's sleep; where within I dream of the promise that is spring.

Perhaps, an ending isn't always a goodbye and a goodbye isn't necessarily a farewell; for it might be, "Until we meet again." Sometimes, an ending is merely the beginning of something good. And the continuity of life, maybe even love is only maintained by our ability and willingness to let go, in order that we might grow. Thus hope is a state of mind, not a state of being.

That such are seasons of change, then so are seasons of life.

I am a wood of cotton and height, having stood here many a year. I wear scars of time and humanity, yet I have weathered storms by bending to their winds. I have learned to embrace change with the humility and knowledge that all things do pass. Such are seasons of change, so are seasons of life. I have endured, thus I am content with my circumstances.

I have songs to sing and tales to tell.

That once upon a time…

Prologue I

2007-12-06T09:36:00.006-06:00

“Hope is a state of mind, not a state of being.”

…

I was born a wood of cotton and height.

I have stood here many a year nestled comfortably along the river's banks; here I have spent my days basking in my Father's sun, for His warmth is assurance of tomorrow. Patiently I drink deep from the cool springs of my Host's immortality, secure in the knowledge there are many days still before me.

I am content with my circumstances.

I wear scars of progress and revolution, for I have been my Father's silent witness to the rebirth and evolution of these lands. Yet, I have weathered storms of time by bending to its wind, as I have learned to embrace change with the humility and understanding that all things do pass.

Thus, I have endured.

I have been a humble host to many a bird and beast that found solace in my sway and sanctuary in my root; a refuge to traveler and lost soul alike, for I have given them shelter from storms, as I graciously held them within the comfort and shade of my rustling coat. My unselfishness has been reward in itself, for the fond memory of good company has outweighed even tangible treasures.

I have been left with songs to sing and tales to tell.