Perspective

Who names the twilight all down to the ground?
Who counts the shadows and who sings the night?
There are mysteries that leave neither sound
nor traces behind in their secret flight.
The forest air is sharp upon the skin
when autumn bows and gives way to winter.
White moonlight makes this small clearing begin
to glow and shine but the cold is bitter.
The old magic from ancient days and times
survives here to renew the world’s dreaming.
There is power without measure that finds
the truth without sympathy or meaning.
We are accidents in this universe
just trying to make things better, not worse.

(c)2006, william the submissive poet