There’s a place to go, to walk and to think; a place to remember, to dream and to be; there’s a place to go where old friends dwell, where flowers bloom and family is well.
And in through this place a path does wind, making loops upon loops. Dancing beneath the trees. The trees of this forest, a forest made of light, are green, are full, are fragrant and still.

And the trees, they rest peacefully under a watery sky,
a sky full of waters that giggle and sigh;
And the waters lap playfully at the stars and their moon,
shining and sparkling and playing a tune;
And memories do swim in the waters above,
do swim with the stars on the wings of a dove;
And deep in the sea I meet you and laugh,
for you are as you were, though so long has passed;
Your whistle, your smile, that look in your eyes,
we meet in the grass and together we rise;
And we rise to the trees and we play ‘mongst the leaves,
and you tell me your story, and all that you’ve seen;
For outside of the forest our time spent was brief,
and here we can sit, can talk, can just breathe;
And we speak of the world, of a hug from a friend
of crickets at twilight, and why it all ends,
But end yet it will, an inevitable truth,
everything ends, of which you are proof;
For in this forest, yes you dwell, as long as do I,
you dwell as you were, as you were when alive;
And the world, it exists for moments like these,
when I remember your hair and that scent and a breeze;
And the world, it exists, exists in forests of light,
where always it’s day and it’s dawn and it’s night;
Where the sigh of a moment has sprung from a tree,
where lovers, and friends, and family will be,
And they swing from the limbs and the forests do echo
and little dreams play by the pond in the meadow;
But that path that does curl ’round the base of the tree,
is waving and singing, and beckoning me;
And though my heart has found stillness in this memory glade,
from the path and my trek I cannot abstain;
So on yet I carry, toward here and toward there,
with flowers from the forest safely tucked in my hair.

I walk a path of many steps,
Of many days and nights,
The path, it winds through crowded streets,
And forests made of light;
And o’er this path come many friends,
Their paths the same as mine,
And our steps do fall like summer rain,
If only for a time.

This path continues out of view,
Over mountains yet to climb,
Past walking friends on paths their own,
Whose paths will end, like mine;
But end’s not here, and what a day!
No place I’d rather be,
The sun so bright, the rain and snow,
The world, and you, and me.

My path leads me to silent places,
And places me in silence,
It leads me out into the world,
And offers silent guidance;
For these paths we find our feet upon,
Are like a river, flowing,
And we, like them, are ever moving,
Learning, listening, growing.

This journey started long ago,
I cannot remember when,
Yet here I am, a traveler now,
and that I’ve always been;
I travel always, I suppose,
My feet will always fly,
And my heart grows heavy with sad joy,
As the world is passing by.

Passing trees and passing hills,
And the stars will wheel above,
And the waters walked are sometimes smooth,
And smoothness turns to rough;
The clouds, the windows, the two at once,
A smile upon your face,
The beauty of all along the way,
In this I find my faith.

This path I walk is all I know,
And there is no turning back,
We walk on wings of hopes and dreams,
And forward just, those flap;
So on we fly, through streams of life,
Toward distant seas, and then,
When all has passed, all courses ran,

We’ll be together again.

tick. and tock. and ticking and tocking,
your clock is not mine
though neither is stopping;
and the ticking and tocking,
rising up from the ground;
and ticking and tocking,
the rain coming down.

you come and we go and
between there and now?

we choose here and then.

again and again.
and again.
and again.
and then it was now, all over again.
why can’t now it be then? when so little we knew . . .
so little, so little.
now it’s so little again.

time and its thoughts are
daisies on the hill
with the blades of the grasses, the scents, and a dream:
of grass under skies, of skies gold and white;
a time spent amongst clouds.
and the rain, and the sun.
and storm? how it used to,
it would rain as it shone!
so fierce, yes, so fierce, so fierce and unknown.
our youth, though, would dance, would dance, so, and roll
and run and then laugh,

and live, yes,
and live.

and we sat lazily by as we idled our time
and we watched from the hill,
and we watched and we watched,
we watched contentment off playing;
off playing among green,
playing among white,
playing among dreams

among dreams that were floating,
were floating so green.

Green like the sun,
like your sun on my face;
like your wind on my skin and your leaves falling ’round;
a song in my ear and your face on my mind,
wondering if you still remember that time:

that time of when two, the same for a time,
could beat yet as one, with just some more time.

But time was off playing, off playing with time;
a time of the sun and a kiss on the neck,
a time of our dreams, of our smiles, our fun.
In our time we drew trees
with small wooden swings,
for our thoughts
and our memories
and things that could be.

Could be frozen in time, while the clouds play again,
while a mother stands tall, and watches and waits.
while little dreams are off playing, off out in the field.
and the green, gold and white,
and the skies made of clay,
just dancing like owls, like shimmering grasses;
like shimmering grasses, just frozen in time.
A time that will change, will blossom and fall;
a time that was then and, here, is again;
a time that exists, exists in my dreams.
dreams of a time, a time filled with dreams.