Ad Libitum

Arcady

101

On a soft strewn night, in the youth of October, a dream of a place a poet whispered unravelled in shy revelations. Passion brisked every symbol of the words he'd undressed. For one moment, I'd read the things he once did... the way his hand might've brushed the page with a sort of mother's embrace— little gestures every poet offers. The meridian of his soul's hearth had become mine, spiraling their daint lavender vines while the words flurried. I'd imagine the reflection in the amber of his eyes. They are our own. 

He'd cry Arcady, rustling the scapes— stoned or mossy, but always serene... the river's reflections of an evening sun, refracting in ridges upon the slim, shallow pool. The wonder in every flamed thread upon the Sun's shore. And whether it became disgruntled at timid animals who daren't look at his blazing petals for the fear of their irises growing disheveled: 

Every fern and vine and leaf, 

Allay their minds to my charm. 

Every animal proves my grief, 

Fleeing from my flames' red harm!

So I'll go... far away, 

Allot the breezes to a chill, 

And crisp the blooming buds of May, 

So every beast shall miss me still!

If you sit in the river's midst, every other refrain of the wind work harmonies of its cool resemblance and tinges from the warm, dimming sun. Thin traces of clouds in the lilac sky trudged and waned, uninspired of migrating birds. Horizons blink lazily while the sun kisses us goodbye. That bright, sentimental hue of a goldsmith's oeuvre, heaviest around the setting sun, stretching a thin ray across the easing sky is near. The natural breezes incline one to feel like a child— or something else. Something otherworldly. My poet knows. 

All is pleasant. Boughs of the primmed trees sing in accordance; elder songs of light and air. The stone beneath me, gathering lost blossoms and pine. As they faltered, his old adage of their cycles flowered:

Each year's nadir, blooms are kissed with age, 

Burnished, shining, golden and flushed, 

So mortal fears, those Summer-made, 

Fly away with leaves and dust. 

Cast thy woes on trepid trees, 

Whose branches weigh with fading eyes, 

And let thy mind be watered with ease, 

For a newborn phase is ours in time. 

He'd admired the cold, curmudgeon moon; heiress to Helios's throne once night had broken through. I'll wait on her and the glorious mimicry of the sun. She's the uttermost mysterious. He'd have loved to see the secrecy in her aura:

Ever noble, in stance and light,  

She bathes our misery in white, and when, 

Imbued, my marrow; my lover's eye—

I know I shall not love again. 

Each passing night, I oft will dream, 

Of docile things; glistening streams, 

And hope one day I'll be a light, 

Like stars children see at night. 

There's some pale relief at this thought— for once, I'd see every lulling star, unfettered by heavisome clouds. Something beautiful can be found in every modicum— the shorescape and wold alike. Something special makes love with every bodiless melody of our nature, so handsomely shown back to us, breathing and circulating in each of our persons. 

Beyond the blossom-gate trees, one can step out into the docile field, preparing instruments for tonight's madrigals. We can come away and give audience as our poets have before— I like to think they're still listening, writing and whispering to us, always. 

Thy mythos kissed my Summer's fade; 

Washed away the phases, jaded. 

Songs of yore, and beauty inlaid,

Move the age and hearts, elated. 

Tarry a while, thy Autumn's embrace, 

Pander the aura'd season's march!

Let it give unto me, thy face. 

Greet us amid the Winter's arch.