I believe
I consider
I think
what a tree must be.
Summer dream to fall
into the color,
and right out from the storm gutters.

Ever smell the pages of a book?
This is the denouement.

The thin soil will expose
down to the precious rock.
Between the deepest canopy of leaves,
no heads will be counted.
Go with someone you trust.
A secret world must be preserved
at whatever cost to others.

Beckoning.
Speaks from every side.
You had come in the night,
under shield of stars.
One day we wake up,
and it's not the same.

Yes, I'm lost,
but it feels like shelter to me.

Yes, I'm lost,

but it's a race for the sun, so
keep your feet on the ground.
Write it in stone,
it has to last.
Besalt.
Maybe acid free paper.
One that nobody can read.
It's the urge to catch.

So throw this over the wall,
buried under decay of autumns past.
You'll find everything that's behind,
everything in time.
Dig through a season, maybe two.
There, part of us, we lie

© 2001 Mark Brown