Japhet Orchids, Caladium, Canterbury Bells,
Gomphrena, Amaryllis, Spring Snowflakes, Rue,
Morning Glories, Nasturtium, Lupine, Malva, Chives:
Sea of blossoms pale of hue in the
dawn’s morning light. They ache for sunshine,
but you will have to wait a bit more, my
precious posies. The fog of a new morning,
leftover residue of the moon’s secret dance,
submerges the tallest trees knot-deep in
mist, a thin river of floating vapor,
tinting my forest in a colorless, lifeless blue.
Nevertheless, there is life everywhere.
My flowers are a testament to that; winter was harsh, but
spring now lifts their delicate chins from
fields of one bland dye to fields of a whole palette, and I –
I mark time, waiting, watching, wanting
to swoop down and drown in their aromatic ocean.
But I will not, for the fancy always passes,
as the long day passes into the next,
and the breeze carries on my thoughts
to Yonder Side.
The flowers are lovely in their sweet
anticipation, but my forest is bereft of life
otherwise; a song shall remedy that. When I sing –
Affettuoso, amoroso, spiritoso –
all reality gives leave of post
to slur with each strisciando
and someone, somewhere, will
answer this, my hallowed call.
So I commence the ancient hoot:
“Who are you, who wander here –
Lost, alone, and incomplete?
Hark this tender, lulling sigh
Lilting lithely through my trees,
Bidding you seek out a form
Following swiftly behind
As it extends caring claw,
Helping you go on your way.”
A sprightly giggle clearly rings
far off, somewhere amidst the dampened spruce;
scratching, and scratching frantically,
leaping from limb to limb, my
wings unfurled, cradling the wind,
I followed the titter to a small clearing ‘round
a raised patch of earth florally dressed.
Laughing and spinning and skipping and falling
is a petite creature, a fledgling girl,
whose blushing cheeks reflect the budded rose,
whose delicate arms wave about
like the stem of a fragile sea thrift.
She plays there, breast-deep among the flowers,
and I remain perched above her tiny head
observing how each delicate finger traces
the vibrant vessels of a petal.
My eclipsing shadow betrays my
presence, and the child carefully surveys the
canopy until I am revealed – or choose to be.
A toothy smile, speckled by many gaps
between the pearls, shines through the foggy
meadow, a lighthouse in a sea of chrysanthemum
and azalea. I hunch over on my branch, sharp talons
digging deeper in their hold, breaking bark that
cracks and trickles to the forest floor, lost from
sight before it even reaches halfway down.
“Who are you, dear little one, lost in my
forlorn forest, set apart from time and space,
when the sun has yet to stretch wide her
fiery wings and ignite the heavens?”
The child exclaims, “Who are you?”
without the slightest hint of fear.
“I have names longer than the roots of the
tallest sequoia. They are more learned than
the angels of Heaven, deeper than the
lowest trench, more hideous than your darkest
fears, more beautiful than the most sparkling gem.
They are names older than the beard of Time,
faster than the northern wind, younger than
the newborn fetus, slower than a century.
But they are names, and only names.”
“Okay. I will call you Mister Owl!
Will you play with me?”
“What have you been playing, child?”
“Anything and everything, but mostly with
these flowers. They’re very pretty. Will you
come down and play with me, Mister Owl?”
She twirled around and stretched out her arms
as if to catch my hulking shape, but she is
far too tiny for the task, and I too small
to understand her wish.
“I cannot, dear little one, but I know where
you can find the most enchanting blooms
to ever live on earth or elsewhere, so answer
this: Won’t you accompany me along, to
the Pasture? It’s a wonderful place, where
the sun always shines, the air is always
fresh, the water is crystal as a cloudless sky,
and the people never find a reason
to feel anything but joy. Won’t you
come with me?”
The pretty girl stepped back a pace
and shook her dainty locks. “I’m
sorry, Mister Owl, but my Mum probably
is wondering where I am. You see, she and
that boy, they were having such a good time
and wouldn’t play with me, so I went to
find someone who would. I met a nice man –
He promised to play with me. He said he knew
a place where the most fun could happen, fun
I didn’t think was real. I took his hand, but –
somewhere between here and there – I became
lost in this forest, and could not find the man
or Mummy or Jimmy, but I found these
flowers, and they are such pretty things.”
“But who are you?”
As a reply, she offered me a somber lily,
but I could not take it, lest it would shrivel
to a crisping husk. Sliding from my perch
I land right in front of her – she at the edge
of the meadow, I at the brink of the forest.
Producing from beneath my wing a dahlia,
a glimmer brightened her eye immediately, for
this dahlia grows in the Pasture and puts to shame
every flower in this clearing. The child touched
my claw and held the gift, and as she did a single
tear dripped into its stigma. The sun rose in that
moment, bathing her in its warmth and refracting
a dazzling array of otherworldly colors in the dahlia.
I caught the next tear, wiped it away,
and no more fell in its succession.
“My dear child, the one you seek
can be found at the end of the trail
paved by flowers just like this.
Follow it through to the very end and
you can play all day, to your heart’s content,
and someone who loves you will always exist
whenever you call, or think you’re alone,
to be your playmate.”
Emulating radiance of rising sun,
the child’s face brightened
as her tiny arms clung to my feathers
in an embrace that was not half my waist –
“Thank you, Mister Owl” –
then turned away toward the path
and hopped with speed through the
meadow without a single glance behind
and disappeared between the trunks –
the morning mist evaporated with her
as did the hovering wasps, letdown by her choosing
the path leading not where she expects, but on –
on to the Pasture, for that is where she must go –
Though she recognize it not.
With farewell, so I end
the dawn’s awakening with a tune
to guide the child where she must go;
I return in turn from whence I came
until the next poor wandering name.
“Draw thee hither, wayward child,
By the morn’s misty dawn,
And I shall show you Pasture green,
Newly frocked in dewing sheen,
Where you may frolic ‘mid the rows
Of Rose and Cleome, softly glows
Fields of Iris, Heav’nly lawn –
Your precious hand in mossed talon
Shall be led beyond the Wild
And home again on Yonder Side.”
Morning's Early Dark 