L'aura del Campo

Top

Top

It spins glowing white,
slowing, a rainbow kaleidoscope
wobbling, tipping on one side.

So beautifully blue,
now green, now red.

The motion of a child's life,
crying, smiling, growing up,
too soon dead.

So calm, like the balm
of knapweed honey,
pale and sweet.

Where do the bees go
after the autumn, I asked.

But the sun left without reply.

Only leaves scattered,
frozen under ice, white
like my thinning hair,
like the film conquering old eyes,
answered.

Wait until spring...
...then seek out your inner creation;
all breath spirals outward
from the last known location.

© Kåre Enga [169.124] 2012-10-21