Rounded In The Ways Of Life

Cowslips grow along a winding woodland stream in this here amphitheatre-they're-all that's left to show me-it's-spring and I'm not alone in the arc to show me there is light in my heart that's not all dark to show me it's not just a cold, selfish, blaspheme that I should feel so empty and crazy and bereft. These here cowslips like stars were once part of me smooth-soft-stones rudimentarily, chosen for earth rounded in the ways of life. They became part of me, their feet in crystals of quiet ice-made-a-claim I impugned ahead the flowing dream, wintery -dreams that-if-I could, I would dream unfrozen. Where they've gone, I never chased-or-followed they slipped beneath the ground, and-were-swallowed; I walked in search past the sullen woodland pool whose prism mirror was more mystically in tune. Its purple depths were only ankle-depth shallow but its reach was to my soul more than a shadow. And cold as it seems, I felt myself here at home looking halve crazed into its watery loam I wish to see its waters move from the stillest thought I gazed for fish-and-still, but there was nought- no echo of life did discern in its face would speak with me, but its presence shone; a holy place. The lore I followed without a footprint trace.