Stillness in the Georgian Valley

The sun slowly rises

Filling the valley

With puddles of liquid sunshine

A resolute silence

Bores its way into the morning light

Stillness,

The Soul of this place

Soft, sweet, utterly Zen

Silence pours itself deep within

The crevices of this valley

Creating a canvas

Upon which stick figured trees

Tall and lanky

Hold firm,

Pencil sketched into the landscape,

Branches steely and randomized,

A million lacy tendrils

Splayed across a landscape

Creating a Still-life

 

Nameless at the Landings Bar

The early fall envelops

Darkness whispers to the night

From the depths of lost souls wandering

Lurking shadows out of sight

 

Invisible pheromones stirring up hope

For all the nameless people trying to cope

Sharing a moment suspended in time

Shuttering the loneliness, and the nine to five grind

 

FOG…

                            

                        Quietly!  At first in patches, floating swiftly towards shore,

 The fog, all powerful, gathers without warning—engulfing obliterating,

A white-out, void of time and space,

All things disoriented, unable to see, rendered helpless

…But then, Fog sits quietly, embracing me, wet and sweet,

Coating the shore with silent resolve

A perfect lover, understanding and soft,

It echoes the cries of sounds within its gentle embrace,

And then, detaching, moves on.

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