True Love
Listen—is not true love
alike to a well?
Fed from pure rains above
and full without fail?
Yet, such wells are earned
by devout effort,
by spade and shovel turned
to move stone and dirt
and deepen it the more,
then bolster with bricks—
to dig to the earth’s core
requires more than tricks.
But it shall not go dry
if quite respected,
and if by careful eye
never neglected;
whether in desert heat
or in arctic cold,
it will quench quite complete
when one’s young or old.
My love for you, Falon,
knows no arid drought,
gallon upon gallon
never running out,
nor will it spoil with slime
or grasping willow,
or the meddling of Time
or the chill of snow;
bottomless is this well,
bottomless this heart,
come and drink yourself hale—-
let us never part.
“Free Will”
A spider among the trees,
on its thread,
swaying in the breeze,
just overhead,
going to and fro, just so,
dangling high,
whichever way the winds blow
by and by,
still weaving its silk pattern
despite gales
from the thunderstorms that turn
like ship sails
the web it spins for itself,
that silk net
that feeds and sustains its health—
a vignette
to its will, to its own drives,
yet written
like all other spider lives
as writ when
born, inheriting instincts
without thought,
their patterns woven in links
just-so wrought.
And, so, when headwinds unwind
arachnid
weaves as ordained, its own mind
bound as bid
by the web of Fate, of Cause
which, unfurled,
determines all forms and laws
of the world.
Solipsism
A fool could be under reign of thunder
and think it his cravings yet satisfied,
taking to feast as a pig to plunder
and to drink, as rainfall, much gratified
that rain should fall only in his favor
to help wash down his solitary meal,
as he eats till grown tired of each flavor,
still thinking to give the thunder his fill.
Tangleroot And Tressknot 