Through glistening autumnal glade she strode, with not one rustle of leaf
Onward she skipped across the lake with not one ripple beneath her feet
Yet the sun she saw her come, Jealous she scorched her fragile frame
Not one piece of her beauty, just a wisp of smoke remained.
The cruel ignorant few hold the tiller of our ship
They intend to crush our spirit on this wildest trip
Our power seems stripped but for our vengeful voice
No wheel offered to us for direction, no reasonable choice
But to shout and to scream, till the monster’s hands quiver from
For the good to take the tiller, to guide us from this hateful maelstrom.
The Siamese is visiting again, he comes to be with us occasionally, just enough time to know he cares. The other day I saw him dart across the lawn. I went out to see him, but he was not in sight, I called him anyway. A scratchy clatter and he arrived on the fence, leapt into the garden and trotted over to see us. He sits his elegant self on the mat and melts us with his deepest sapphire eyes. This act of generosity deserved a treat. chicken for you my enigmatic friend. And I know what you are thinking behind those reading eyes, no, he would come anyway, treat or not.
Those who take comfort in the silence
others find the busy settles the mind
infinitely differently are we constructed
in no neat boxes are we confined.
We firmly pushed the pendulum
as it looked right out of place
sadly it swung back right
and hit us in the face.