I swept the fields
Mountains so clean
To end up in
Your hands again
I picked some daisies
Buttercups too
Golden rod
To hand to you
For in your eyes
I saw such hope
Dreams in a fashion
I’d cotton’d to
That kept a softspot
All animals
Of each their kind
Wild friends, too
And in the hearth
Roasting slow
Cups of tea
Tea for two
As here I made it
Pasture green
Journey to
Just for you.
Tag: buttercup
Moon at Midnight – Part IV (day 1978)
(part III)
As I sat crosslegged in the little clearing
Hidden as I was, deep within the forest
Heading East to the land of the Old People
I wondered about the faces I might see,
Faces of the men and women who would greet me,
Faces of the children playing in fields
And fields growing with the vigor
Only well cared for fields of tender hands can grow
I knew I would find
In the land of the Old People.
Beside me was a little patch of buttercups
That skirted the edge of deeper forest
Fallen logs and fir needles of this land
I could still hear the brook I had crossed
Calmly gurgling in the distance
My canteen still cold from its fill
My belly still churning from its fill
My fingers still wet and a cold
Only fresh mountain water can give,
A cleaning happily taken
Where I had let my bare feet soak gently a while.
My eyes scanned into the forest
Of an age I guessed ageless
Not a stump to be seen
Finding geometry in naturally fallen trees
Trees standing so tall my guess couldn’t reach
Moss covering so gently
I envisioned the industry nestled
Deep within the safety net of moss
That lay about thickly covered forest floor
Fungus’ mycelia layer hidden well
In healthy circles around the Ancient Giants
Old Man’s Beard hanging low
And spider webs zig-zagging
With its delicate fibers of care.
My pouch was always on me
No matter how far from camp I wandered
So as I moved away from my opening
I felt instinctively for my tools
Stepping over former soldiers
Rotting as life continued its circle
Through the efforts of decay
My soft crunch avoided the mounds
Finding edible mushrooms was easy
This early season of harvest
Upon edges of clearings I’d find strawberries
And blueberries and salmonberry brambles
So thick I’d get high
Feeding so heartily on such sugar
I knew it wouldn’t stay forever.
Fire starting was an economy no man could do without
No sane man that is,
For plenty of nights I’d been cold
In pure darkness of deep night,
But this night I had supple moss
And accessible wood dry enough to start
A warming dance in my blood
Soon the coals were hotter then the wood
That burned inside their whispers
My bed was simply a roll
The hard ground was something I was used to
I carried soft fur of a bear
On the top of my bag
Which I’d lay under my roll
To soften each night’s cold
My dream of a sheepskin
I had read about in books
Of old foreign herdsmen roaming
Highlands of Scotland
But I with my simple roll
Laid out on the ground.
Rise of My Sunshine (day 1901)
Like the rise of my sunshine
Open windows so wide
I’m gospel of a better way
(Uneven says the mind)
Powers to a better place
In a land of snowy down
Where my buttercups
Chase around little pawns
And trees so tall
Grand Duchess round
Green spires so high
Needles falling from my sky
Early moments of a brand new day
Rise of my sunshine
Where the Wild Buttercups Grow (day 723)
Have you ever been where the wild buttercup grows?
Up past the fence where the cattle don’t go
There’s an oak tree there sheltering a patch
Of clovers so thick, of ground so cool
I don’t go back there often since I’ve moved away
The house has changed now, green house is blue
But when I do go up to where the buttercups grow
An overgrown path where the big old oak stays
I remember in ’24 Mary-Lou and I walked
Up to the meadow where the buttercups grow
We sat on the sunny side of the old oak tree
Upon the checkered blanket we brought with the wine
But lovers they come and some of them go
And the buttercups always continue to grow
Up in the meadow where the wild oak grows
Past the old fence where the cows don’t go