The morning wakes upon the hill,
The moon awaits me in the glen;
I set out with a frozen will
To talk to you again.
The world is just a funeral fire,
A ceremony of remorse;
And still I’m climbing, ever higher,
Set upon this course —
I asked you for forgiveness once;
You set about it with good grace –
But you’ve been gone, and now your ghost
Moves softly through this place
Of missing leaves, and morning mist.
Mid echoes of intention,
I take the path that upward lies
Defying such convention
As would dictate a different course.
I knew you back when love was life;
And life was not enframed by death
And peace was not entombed in strife.
We can’t recapture innocence —
For once it’s gone, it’s gone for good,
And all our striving, in a sense,
Is just so much misunderstood
By others; and by (often) us.
How can it be the trees still know?
They lose their splendor; still, they stand.
And every single path will show
The wisdom of the rocks and trees,
The solemn beauty in the soil;
Where love is not some rash disease,
But more like liberty in toil –
To live, to grow: these are our days –
To strive to know as many ways
To scale the hills as we can find:
And integrate the body-mind
Into the whole ’twas meant to be.
Whether on mountainside or fen —
As morning wakes upon the hill,
And moon awaits us in
The glen
