Frost

On Thanksgiving Day

I stood on a sea of glass,

Feet suspended above a carpet of earth.

Every newly-frosted spike and blade

Stood ready at attention,

Bristling in the shrill morning breeze,

Eager to prove their valor.

I bent to examine a specimen of the tide,

Newly-baptized by these newborn waves,

And found it was a leaf-

Brown and withered from the cold,

Yet laced with crystals, shimmering in the morning sun.

Though cast-off from its former perch,

Among the branches of some tree,

It now sat clothed in robes that rivaled the fairest jewels of the fairest lady.

Thus nature clothes the small,

I puzzled,

While men adorn the great.

The frozen sea at my feet began to stir, 

Hastened to speed onward by the morning sun.

Each stalk began to crackle-

And the music of water began to flow free-

Until each blade burst forth from its jeweled case and stood brave and tall,

Shoots of green in the newly-christened earth.

Epitaph for Myself

When I die,

Lay my ashes in the ground.

Lay my dust in the heart of the earth.

Scatter me beside the waters,

Beneath the heights of the trees.

Bury me beneath the stars and the moon and the sun.

Let the whole world dance around me!

For my soul shall be glad and free.

Lay me down when God takes me anew.

Bury my bones when my spirit flies home.

Lay me down, 

Underneath the carpet of a thousand stars.

Let my soul be free as the wind.

For- at last!- I shall be free.

Cry not for me, dear heart.

Shed not your tears of sympathy.

Instead of sorrow, let laughter ring.

In lieu of mourning, sing!

Sing my freedom with the voices of the waters.

Dance my joy with the wind-tossed trees.

Shout my love with the voice of the mountains!

And lay me down,

For I am free.

Aralcor

Up, upon a place,
Where the rolling hills fall past my feet-
Off, in the distance,
Where the horizon glows blue in the fading twilight-
There, up there,
Is where my heart longs to be.
Further beyond the valleys of steel and ice,
With their villages of men pounding sword and stone
As their fires smoke heavily into the night.
Past the chaos,
Where a cool wind blows away the dusty air of the world
And brushes the stars clean.
That place beyond,
Where those with brave hearts walk among the lions,
And sing the wild, free songs of the starlight,
And dance among the sapphire mountains.
Oh, Aralcor,
Where the wanderers at last find their home,
And are happy to roam no longer.
That is where I wish to be.

Messenger

It was in the tide of spring

When the lily-whites were unfurling their purple-striped buds,

And the little onion-flowers were peeping up their stalky heads,

That Chief Hiagon made his choice.

Perhaps it was the time of year that turned his mind to hope-

For in springtime,

The deeds of winter,

The betrayal of brothers,

The mutinies whispered over smoking fires,

And the breaking of promises made

Under the starry skies of summer,

May melt away with the thawing snow.

For, when the earth sings of new beginnings,

The hearts of men may warm.

They may soften with the melting ices.

Though often stifled in the dead of winter,

Hope is not easily silenced in spring.

So Hiagon sent me forth-

A messenger to speed among the waving grasses,

Following the creeks,

Bearing the news of forgiveness.

I was sent to run-

Among the pine-forests,

Across the sands,

Along the streams.

Bearing a message of this newborn hope,

A slender green shoot among the springtime flowers.

Rainstorm

It was on my way home that the rain came-

Drizzling its ways down out of the gloomy skies

Like the grey tears of some sorrowful cloud,

Who, overburdened with life,

Was inclined to beg a mortal for some sympathy.

Much better men that I would have stopped

To moan about wet stockings and muddy shoes.

But I- 

Though well-versed in the ways of this world-

Must needs pause,

And hear the sighing of the breezes.

Enthralled by the beauty of the rain-

The silver droplets shining on the leaves,

Like so many brilliant chandeliers,

The honeysuckle blossoms,

Peeping their pale heads out for a drink,

Sir Robin singing proudly from his lofty perch,

Seated calmly on a swaying branch,

And the feathered ferns,

Content to wave hello from their bed in the grasses.

For a moment, we all paused-

Whether man, or tree, or feathered beast,

 And listened to the woes of the overcast Upperworlds.

But I could not stay, of course-

Though enchanted with the tale told me,

A long path yet stretched before me.

And so, with a nod to Nature, I continued on my way.

But yet, when I am still once more, 

I hear the music of the rain.