I clear the path for my way, at
The periphery of time – a wanton
Disregard for calm and clamor

In phase of pines standing
At the lake as mirror among
Temples of the crying wind

Of belonging taxon and adrift in
Legion with the glow of rose

Of fecund petals, light-ghosts
Dancing on the sleeve of a
Beige and bracken love

Bring me in time to an
Open door before the
Day expires where we walk

Grasped in the grace
of silent surrender

© K. James Ribble