Heartland

Twin lakes of glimmering green shimmer reflections of sky.
Crescent path to the south curves up or down.
Forests of swaying, short golden leaves to the north—none beyond the lakes.
She is down to Earth, gazing at the sky.
Fields of cream-coloured rye outline the land.
I know this face.
Rain clouds gloom and thunder broil,
Those dark shrouds hanging dim the land grey.
Sprays of rain sputter, spilt upon the lush turf.
The lakes go still afterward, hazed and foggy.
Days in a daze and the clouds lift from her face.
Winter arrives and her eyes glaze over.
White complexion, smooth as an empty white page.
Overflowing with Life.
Spring turns round and she’s still as beautiful as ever.
The path smiles to the sky.
Sunlight beams rays of glistening grace.
Autumn rolls around and her face is rosy.
I walk about, a painter in a drawn land, better than I could ever brush a replica.
The leaves fall but her hair does not.
Face the Moon, accept the Sun.
Love not the world.
‘Tis a fruitful place.
Leaf to dust.
Seasons to and fro, relentless rhythm, eternity oft and off.
Spiral aim swirls my eyes torrents in the sky.
Rising brightness shines my weary clouds away.
Hope is not singular in nature.
The lakes do not give in and neither does the sky.
For they reflect one another in harmony.
Love is stronger than the fibre moulding the earthly material together.
Rain to earth, roots to leaves to seeds to forests to dust to life again and love
indefatigable.
Wind burning cold vapour in, warmth of hope exhales.
Tree to paper to words to poetry to song to heart to you to all.
Oppression has no touch or sound or influential taste in this place.
Sown a single blade of green grass, cutting darkness asunder.
A single blade of grass.
Circular frame—is it the substance or the sustenance that defines the distance?
The picture of a landscape paints hope upon my face, my frame.
Hanging on the wall so I do not forget hope.