Golden Age

One must maintain a little bittle of summer, even in the middle of winter. - Thoreau

omnipotent and faithfully wise

struggling to wipe thawing, crusty residue from the corners of half-opened eyes

a february sun awakens and finds its way through mostly clear skies

higher, higher

'tis nothing but simply being that we desire

kicking off the snowy blanket of covered layers

needing neither a manifesto nor guide in order to identify any of the new day's outspoken players

a waving, wafting seasonal, patchwork quilt

tall pines standing guard like thirsty straws, sipping the snowmelt

in this divine, sacred place where genesis once dwelt

hawks and crows circling in stubborn denial

contemplating wings, flight and curious beaks all the while

worrying not for vogue or style

every now and then time stands still

sipping tea and surveying all from an old window sill

miraculously healing without need of a magic elixir or crushed pill

souls yearn

love smolders as it longs to burn

kissing the landscape where a sleepy, innocent river meanders restfully by

revealing smiling truths whilst stifling a bold-faced lie

oh to live, to live

breathing hope and faith

whilst darkness lies down lonely to die

eternity moistens a finger in order to turn yesterday's spent, perused page

all the world's a stage

ever ushering in an unprecedented

golden age

Author's Note

"The warmth comes directly from the sun, and is not radiated from the earth, as in summer; and when we feel his beams on our backs as we are treading some snowy dell, we are grateful as for a special kindness, and bless the sun which has followed us into that by-place." - Thoreau