Lugh’s Garden

What force is this, that flows in ancient wood,
To make the buds spring green on gnarled oak,
While winter’s snow hides rocks beneath its hood,
And breath floats on the air like wisps of smoke?

How bold to dress itself in bright array,
As if to show the world a new-found youth,
Ignoring all the years that slip away,
To disregard life’s one eternal truth.

Does not, the force of time, treat all the same,
And bring us ultimately to our end?
What then, could cause this withered branch to claim,
The ravages of time, it seeks to mend?

‘Tis love it feels, there is naught else that could,
Renew the life, and strength, in ancient wood.

She ran away, the other night,
Before I said goodbye,
I wanted so, to wish her well,
But couldn’t catch her eye.
I hope her haste was not because
Of something that was said,
Or something in my cloudy face
That might have been misread.
I hope she knows how much I care,
And that her happiness
Means more to me than all the wealth
A rich man might possess.
I should have said, before she left,
“I hope that you have fun,”
And though I love her so, I know,
I’m not the only one.
I know her love is hers to give,
And hope she understands,
That though I want her very much,
I’d never make demands.
I hope I have the chance to say
These things she should have known.
I hope she doesn’t mind how much
My love for her has grown.

Please don’t say, “I love you,” any more,
I’ll go back to being lonely, like before,
I would rather have a life without,
Than one that you have filled with doubt,
So please don’t say, “I love you,” anymore.

Please don’t take my hand and hold it tight,
Not unless you plan on staying for the night,
You don’t know what I would do,
To have your face to wake up to,
So please don’t take my hand and hold it tight.

I’ve let myself live on with dreams of you,
Wishing you and I could live as one,
Once again you smile and say, “I love you,”
Then leave, and once again my life is done.

Please don’t say, “I love you,” anymore,
I don’t want to watch you walking through the door,
Even though I pray you’ll stay,
In the end you’ll walk away,
So please don’t say, “I love you,” anymore.

I dreamed of you last night
And awoke feeling guilty.
Odd, isn’t it,
How a simple dream,
Even though it was a good one,
Could bring feelings almost like,
Remorse.
You stood, in my dream,
With your back to me,
Not knowing I was there.
I reached out with my right hand,
And touched your left shoulder.
Startled, you turned so quickly
That my fingers
Caught the strap of your nightgown.
And it fell from your shoulder,
Then your breast.
Looking up, you saw me,
And the radiance of your smile
Brought the dawn,
And I awoke, just before your embrace.
Lying there,
I realized, that a moment
I would cherish
Because of you,
Would never be a part of your
Memories,
And once again I felt guilty,
For a moment of love,
Taken without sharing
With you.

Oh, teller of tales,
Chronicler of random thoughts,
Voice for the grasses.
Who hears my mild mutterings?
Just the spider by the door.

In the beginning,
When Father and Mother touched,
Life joined with substance,
And all the children were loved
By parents who knew naught else.

Knowledge was given,
For the sense of that which is,
And the gift of dreams,
The sense of that which may be,
Gifts, given to all that live.

We were equal then,
Fishes, flowers, and forests,
Beasts and humankind,
All sharing the gift of life,
Giving and taking as one.

As we all were one,
None took more than was needed,
All gave what they had,
The ebb and flow of substance
And life, creating balance.

Then came the bad dream,
And humankind saw itself,
And its name was “I.”
And the forests and fishes,
The beasts and grasses were, “They”.

No longer were the
Gifts of Father and Mother
Shared by those who live,
But taken by humankind,
To be used at their pleasure.

Then the Mother’s face
Became blackened with her grief,
And the Father’s dreams
Turned from that which might have been,
To become that which “I” want.

Future, forgotten,
The past, held deep in the rocks,
The balance, broken.
Humankind living the lie
That the mirror holds the truth.

Still, at the parting,
We return to the Mother,
And she judges not,
Forest, fish, and blades of grass,
No less dust than humankind.

But what of the “I”?
Is the flame of life less bright
In a blade of grass
Than in a king, or is the
Father’s flame burning in all?

Pray for the children,
May they once again be one,
To stand hand in hand,
Forest, beast, and humankind,
Humble as the blades of grass.

Just more words to sort?
Songs, echoing from the past?
Still, someone must be
A singer for the children,
And a voice for the grasses.