Transcendental

When I neglect the solitary pleasures
of my soul,
Forget that there are myriad Waldens,
cloned Thoreaux,
I lessen what I have to spend, to share,
Ignoring random treasures buried there,
And find my self undug and drowning old,
A story dreamed, but never to be told.

But if my face should turn
towards silent suns,
Lessening winds that storm and
whip and churn,
Perhaps a tale will speak from ashes left
To smolder slowly,
finally,
to burn.

In brightness glowing with a roseate hue,
A saga shared with stones and living few,
The blooming blaze of me will well retell
The story still unknown, but known too well,
of love and life, of death, of heaven,
hell,
Of ages sages laughed and lied for,
Eons soldiers killed and died for.

Daily gratitudes:
Nerve
Lists
A beautiful thank you card
Friday
Finishing a journa

Quote of the Day: “There is no remedy for love but to love more.” — Henry David Thoreau