Morning Trip (126)

“Nocturne

A pale golden flame illuminates the suspended
billows of the forest. Star after star emerges,
where the moongold laps the velvet-soft shores
of dusk. Slowly the yellowing flame arises
like smoke among dark-blue depths. The
white rays of the stars wander over the move-
less, over the shadowless and breathless green
lawns of the tree-tops. Oh, would that I were
a star lost deep within the paling yellow flame
that illumes the suspended billows of the forest.”

— by “Fiona Macleod” (William Sharp), The Silence of Amor, Where the Forest Murmurs

Celebrating Winter Solstice, Alban Arthan

“As the wheel of days turns into darkness, it reveals the light and hope of Spring.”

The Multiple

The Multiple--elisabeth connelley

The Sky

The Sky
it was pomegranate.

A dark
night
sky

Not fading and deepening blues–
But
Pomegranate.

Focused upon focusing.
Something grand to attend.
The Sky
it was pomegranate.

Such a slight thing
without evident meaning
or intent

Can’t there be anything else?

No.
It was pomegranate.

–by elisabeth connelley

Oh wait, this, I thought, was a blog, but now I think it was a poem. I tried asking it, but so far, it has not answered and I’d rather stay with the pomegranate.