I see the gnarled trees steeped in time, The acorns crunch under my boot with a reassuring beat, The sky tickled the last foliage tops with its Tristian mist.
Path blocked by unbendable decay, Heart drums as, scamper I, climbing past fallen mast, Onwards! enwoods! enbarking! and snarking, Oh how I drape myself in the majesty of this solitude.
Despair, the oak had fallen, The world is darkening, The cold dead universe of space is biting, The fear, the crow is calling. The wind is how—ling, Where now, do I sadly avow?
The light breaks through the rupture, Above the sound of the 1812 overture, Sensing the opening, Lily pads dance in the wind, on the stage of their pond, Carps gasp on the mirror, as the sky cannons sound victory.
Oh come ye winter, come, Angry worthlessness of the void, brings cataclysmic stillness, Might that I delight in the long darkness, Perhaps a Spanish dance sounded by French horns of woodland birds, Colour in a landscape of emollient white.
Em-pacing betwixt cathedrals of shaded canopian ribs, running through the recession of my view, I sleep on the bed of my solitude, Deep within the forest of my desires, Watching the idolatry of self eluding me, The magistrates of trees whip me into discordant temporium, And I will exit in awakening.
Poem by Benito Kobayashi Picture – Autumn landscape By Boyan Dimitrov on Adobe Stock