Beginning at the church was balmy
Spring, welcomed daffodils, azaleas,
Exotic forsythias and all,
Summer dared to not disturb, lest the
Season brief, yet brief it flew.
Sky, shadowed by cottonwood seeds,
Moaned; birds flocked and murmured in
Strange words; the river of
Pastoral guide often reversed to the ancient time,
Eyes and tongues of ghosts would micmic
Mocking bird, provoked murky waves in the room.
Sensible souls were silent,
With spirit of loyalty for the man of the house
High and formidable.
Pastoral language, often lost its original purpose,
Would test the new searcher in distress,
Stirred doubts and disbelief.
In the mind of the new, Buddha beckons
From the cavern, surrounded by the new crowd.
Is this a trend, or an odd one in the flow?

©Byung A. Fallgren