108 fountains
02-01-2014, 10:46 AM
A Blackbird Sings
All night long the crickets creak,
While the clouds drift apart allowing the moon to peek
At the silent meadow where a blackbird sings
A beautiful tune about a number of things.
Lit by moonlight, the fields reveal their treasures.
I gaze at the gardens now without hurry, at my leisure.
A soft smelling mist gives a fresh scent to the breeze
While light steam floats from the pond to the trees.
A bright red rose appears light blue
By the magic glow of the morning moon.
The dampened moss of an enchanted shrine
Lies under the shade of a sleeping pine.
A little grey field mouse squeaks so slightly.
A mother raccoon fondles her children so lightly.
A baby fox whimpers mildly and yawns
And knows that all things evil are gone.
The morning mist descends upon the tender grass
Where golden dewdrops sparkle in the dawn.
The willows weep not knowing that their time, too, will pass.
And the hour is sanctified by the presence of a doe and her fawn.
The dry breeze rustles through the leafy poplar trees,
While small rabbits scurry through the uncut underbrush.
The old wooden fence creaks while the bees
And the butterflies flit from flower to flower without rush.
The untraveled road lies buried beneath violets and clover
And the farmhouse, covered with ivy, crumbles softly.
The skinny, grey cat searches for her lost lover
While the tulips watch the daisies and smile happily.
The jade green moss softens the moist brown earth below
While hazy clouds shade the crisp blue sky above.
The blanche perch follow the stream that flows
From the emerald pine forest to the silver meadow of love.
Only the blackbird remembers the song
Of why the willows now stand alone.
The Maker set right all that which was wrong
And the creatures of sorrow have finally gone.
All night long the crickets creak,
While the clouds drift apart allowing the moon to peek
At the silent meadow where a blackbird sings
A beautiful tune about a number of things.
Lit by moonlight, the fields reveal their treasures.
I gaze at the gardens now without hurry, at my leisure.
A soft smelling mist gives a fresh scent to the breeze
While light steam floats from the pond to the trees.
A bright red rose appears light blue
By the magic glow of the morning moon.
The dampened moss of an enchanted shrine
Lies under the shade of a sleeping pine.
A little grey field mouse squeaks so slightly.
A mother raccoon fondles her children so lightly.
A baby fox whimpers mildly and yawns
And knows that all things evil are gone.
The morning mist descends upon the tender grass
Where golden dewdrops sparkle in the dawn.
The willows weep not knowing that their time, too, will pass.
And the hour is sanctified by the presence of a doe and her fawn.
The dry breeze rustles through the leafy poplar trees,
While small rabbits scurry through the uncut underbrush.
The old wooden fence creaks while the bees
And the butterflies flit from flower to flower without rush.
The untraveled road lies buried beneath violets and clover
And the farmhouse, covered with ivy, crumbles softly.
The skinny, grey cat searches for her lost lover
While the tulips watch the daisies and smile happily.
The jade green moss softens the moist brown earth below
While hazy clouds shade the crisp blue sky above.
The blanche perch follow the stream that flows
From the emerald pine forest to the silver meadow of love.
Only the blackbird remembers the song
Of why the willows now stand alone.
The Maker set right all that which was wrong
And the creatures of sorrow have finally gone.