the first day of the harvest is here,
and the mountain forest yields a healthy crop;
in the time between times,
i look through the trees to the gray sky
and as the Wind dances among the boughs,
the shifting leaves reveal to me the shapes of the times.
fir shows the past:
the fragrance is sweet and refreshing;
but, as I touch here and there, remembering,
the sap sticks to my fingers
and though I rub my hands together until
they bleed from friction,
the guilt remains.
birch tells of the present
which at first may seem comely,
but later is seen to give no comforting shade;
and, the façade of skin
peels away as easily
as my inhibitions in the face of temptation,
showing me for who i really am.
rowan, mountain lord,
whispers the future;
he rules wisely and well over that which will be,
but the pathways of what is to pass
are as disconcerting, convoluted, and uncertain
as the tangled web
of his majestic branches.
the moment is gone;
the Wind has disclosed what It will-
and nothing more.
the morning has come,
so i journey back along the twisted trail
and ponder what i have seen.
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