like the forest in the summer,
cool breeze in your hair;
but you never know the forest,
there's always some part that you can't see.
There is the hidden darkness under the evergreens,
and off the beaten path you can hear
the wind sounding like water in the sky.
The torrent of crackling fire,
the thunder in the rolling clouds:
these fill the dark of the night;
and above you the trees whisper secrets to the moon
that no mortal ear will ever ken.
I am red, bright blood,
Passion high and burning through my veins;
and I am violet,
like the Acanthus blossoms in the spring dew;
and I am white, the snow in December:
that is me, I am Winter's child.
a stone in the stream,
a pool in the mountains;
but not a sad sort of blue,
a sky sort of blue,
with a wisp here or there that won't stay put;
the clouds, that's my hair,
and the rain is my tears,
which are not tears of sorrow,
for the rain is a beautiful thing.
For I am an evergreen in the forest
a child of the Goddess
a hand reaching out
a snowflake alone
a dancer
a singer
a poet
a doorway
a soul.
