Smell the Pale White Roses of the Night

Evening coolness flows down
from the Foresthill. The flaming
sun keeps out of sight. I sigh and
stretch my rigid back. A swallow
skims over the Oaktree top.
Invites me to adventure just
an evening round. To look or
smell and feel the nearing of
the night, the coming of the
summer solstice, the dimming
of the light. And here my dance
begins from tree to tree, between
the roses and the sky high edges
of the clouds, play out nocturne
for an equinox, a lullaby to sooth
my baby’s sudden sorrows:
the monsters of the night to
come, we’ll paint them blue
with frolicking eyes, yes, you
may just touch, caress your
blue green mare. She wants to
ride you through the darkest
night. And on your wake up
call The Way is lightened by
a sparkling swarm of Fireflies.
No Thing is lacking. You can
enjoy this shortcut through
that Ugly Dream. Just Be and
smell the pale white Roses of
the Night. Their humble gifts,
their purity beyond the Turning
Wheel of Life and Death.