A Song for Departing Friends

The air is cold but the sky is burning with a warming light,
And I think that I will stay until the fire turns to night.
And if you’ll stay here beside me than the two of us can see
If we can count the stars that meet the ground and flutter free.
But if it’s time for you to go, then I’ll sing you away,
And you need not fear nor worry for the ones who have to stay.
No, I swear you need not worry for the one you’re leaving here,
For the fire keeps me safe from all the things I have to fear.

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On Holding My Tongue (Again)

Will there still be time for talking
When I am not afraid?
When my voice is no more meek or fraught
And my shame is unlade?

Will I still have breath for speaking
When worrying is past?
When I’m done fearing how I’m thought
Or how my thoughts are cast?

Will I still have words worth saying
When I worry not what’s said?
I suppose it really matters naught–
I shan’t speak when I’m dead.

The Lover’s Turn

The sun is shining high and clear,
In the east and far from here,
The sun is shining high and clear–
Love me, love me, won’t you dear?

The moon is shining, cool and bright,
Westward far and cloaked in night,
The moon is shining, cool and bright–
I will, I will, till morning’s light.

And every sunset shall we meet,
When I in passing pause to greet,
And every sunrise meet again–
Will you, in dying, love me then?

I’ll love you clear across the sky,
And yes, I’ll love you when I die,
And since my light you happ’ly give,
I’ll love you all the time I live.

I’ll love you too, from rise to set,
From when we meet to when we’ve met,
And while this place is yours to see,
I trust you’ll hold the light for me?

Each night I rise and each day die,
As you are born unto the sky,
I’ll hold the light until once more
You rise to keep the hour’s score.

The sun is shining, high and clear,
In the east and far from here,
The sun is shining, high and clear–
Love me, love me, won’t you dear?

The moon is shining, cool and bright,
Westward far and cloaked in night,
The moon is shining, cool and bright–
I will, I will, till morning’s light.

The Eighth Son of Seven

The first son is heir to the seventh son’s throne
Barren and black though it be
The second to all that is gardened and grown
Though half of it’s washed out to sea
The third son receives a wonderful wife
Though she’s fifty years older than he
The fourth, perhaps, to a tedious life
As a merchant, or maker of keys
The fifth joins the army, an officer born
And he might win a medal or three
The sixth son often is treated with scorn
For nothing he does comes free
The seventh has magical seeds to be sown
And wonderful sights to see
But the eighth is neither remembered nor known
A horrible thing to be.

In His Eyes

O eye, like glass, unmoving,
Though once ye stormed, and bright!
Why giveth ye now nothing?
Where gone your childish light?
O eye that stares, and steadfast,
What living death contain?
What silence now ensnares you
Where once did tempest reign?