Leaves Gather Their Breath

Leaves Gather Their Breath

The wind stands still
just for a moment
as the leaves
gather their
breath
before
the
long
descent
to
fertile grounds.

Immersed in cyclic
compost seeping
with mist.

the heat
of
Rebirth.

Leaves Gathering Their Breath | © H a v e n

Leaves Gathering Their Breath | © H a v e n

The Maker of Rain

The Maker of Rain

The maker of rain sits in front of a forgotten sun
spilling forth its solemn tears it cries-
the rhythm of it’s sorrows sings sad songs
lamenting the long day in sheets of gray hues.
the echoes of thunderous choirs
and winds that chant through forests halls-
in these shadows-
the maker of rain summons.

Maker of Rain | © H a v e n

Maker of Rain | © H a v e n

A Timeless Vortex

The constant sounds of falling water and rustling winds make up much of the landscape of the Gorge.

Dog Creek Fall, Washington

Dog Creek Falls, Washington

The warm Pacific ‘Chinook Winds’ dropping their rains against the cold easterly draft of the Plains. I love being in that cold nip of winter, everything is bright and chill. I get lost in the language of falling water, often watching the afternoons fade into the waining of dusk. There is a vortex here, that makes time stand still.

Whistling of ghosts

“The whistling of a ghost is like no other sound in a fistful of universes, because it is woven of all the whistles

"Old NP Railway"

“Old NP Railway”

the ghost has ever heard, and so it usually includes train moans, lunch whistles, fire alarms, and the affronted-virgin screaming of tea kettles.”
― Peter S. Beagle, A Fine and Private Place

In a Certain Way.

It’s that distinct way that wood smoke pummels into the mist

and the way the Sun fights to be regonized.

 

It’s that certain way the trees turn to golden reds

and hues of Ambers.

 

It’s that certain way the mud gets stuck in my boots

and the moist ground summons the fungus to the sky

and then back to its orgins.

 

It’s that certain way the fog dances across the grassy plains.

 

It’s that certain way that the Elk rut

and you can hear their bugle calls

over the hushed quiet of fall.

 

It’s that certain way when you know the white blanket will come

and engulf us soon

and  the wood smoke

and Hearths will be the only thing we know.

 

And in a certain way I give thanks

because in a certain way-

this is what it is all about.

 

All the petty and the trite

gets buried in this scene-

the mists rising above the waters like ghosts.

 

It is these ghosts I give up now,

an offering of smoke.

©2013 H a v e n

©2013 H a v e n