Under Bough


Under Bough

Resting beneath the boughs of Old King Grey Band 

as he sheds his morning dew.

 Telperion's blood runs through those glorious green groves of newly budded acorns, 

and the drops of silver that fall from swollen branches sate me 

with hopeful fertility, 

from which visions and sounds shall spring forth, 

separate and yet a part of my mind. 

It is fated that we share ourselves, 

for where would I sit if not beneath you, Old Grey Band? 

The Twins aspire to be a ladder, 

and the daughters need space to conjure green blades from white sands. 

And to the Lady Pearline, I shall not go, 

for she seeks to leave, 

to wander, 

and so she pulls her roots up high and pushes the soil aside. 

Her toes dig into the Earth, but not for foundation, 

but rather in preparation for the great dance 

that she will have when her feet are free, and the moon is full. 

The nightingales sing of her, 

and so I know her: 

Pearline, the dancing queen, and her train of centipede.

Some say life is too short to waste under trees, 

but with such timely folk, I wholly disagree. 

For the only true waste is the moment not cherished. 

Back pressed to the bark on a cool summer morning, 

I would gladly provide a feast for the ants and crows. 

Nothing left to waste. 

But, only so long as they do not mar the Old King, 

for he is my friend, and I cherish him. 

Let him not be punished for granting a resting place 

to a weary old wretch.


J.M. Rogers

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