Define Me Not

Define me not by morning's light;
A dawn broken sweet as tender breath
From warm, tender lips to your cheek is pressed.

Define me not by noontide's swell;
A graceful note, overflow'd and chiming clear,
Ne'er faltering to a mournful knell.

Define me not by sunset's calm;
Settling gently o'er the vale
Drawing you closer to sleep with its quiet aplomb.

If you must define my race;
From poetic desire or assurance of love,
Through melody, quality, or form of face,
Look no further than your own dear heart.

For we are a pulse that is beating as one;
A miracle more stunning
Than the rising of the Sun.

One

I am the Lord
The Lord is Me
From the rising Sun
To the distant Sea.
From the Shores
To the Moors,
Every Creature
And Tree,
Is Itself, and the Lord,
And part of Me.

A Writer Without Words

And did the man,when dreaming, die,
or suffer through the lashes?
I would ask him, that I would,
despite the ennui that catches;
but soft! And hark! And other frozen, long-lost words
have clattered into ashes.
So I sit and speak no more,
held fast by fingertips all worn,
to the somber window sashes.

Wolves

The beasts were howling, rending the night with their terrible cries of hunger and rage. I tried to keep my family moving, but the snow was deep, and the ice was sly. One of my children left a blood trail where he ran; too big, now, for me to carry.

They were not far behind us, and our eyes showed their whites; rolling in fear. My breath came ragged, its sound as awful as the creatures hunting us. Even as my son fell, with his entrails spilling out as a steaming mess onto the unforgiving snow, it was all I could hear. I knew he cried in pain as they fell upon him, but the sound reached only my heart, bypassing my ears. Crackling in and out, my lungs would fail me soon in this chase.

One by one, my family fell prey to the beasts. The cracking of their bones and anguished howls reverberated in my skull, so often and so loudly I felt my teeth would shatter. After minutes or years, I found myself alone.

I could hear the merciless beasts in the distance, rejoicing in their kill. They must not have noticed one carcass; my own, was missing from their gristly prize. I dragged my weary body, and broken spirit, beneath a fallen tree. The frozen body of this dead sentinel would hide me for the night.

I lifted my wavering gaze to the moon, and silently begged the Mother of the Night to forgive my lack of song. My heart was near bursting with sorrow that must be sung to the Mother.

I wanted to lament my family... but I wanted to live, too.

The Scaled Ones

Burning. The world was burning. Without opening my eyes, or inhaling deeply to catch the smoke, I knew. Only the flames are to be feared. I rose, calmly despite the panic electrifying my body; sending sparks up and out through my nails as they caught my cloak; my hair as it brushed my shoulders.

They have come.

The sound of wings filled the air as their feathers dusted the village with ash. The little school house was gone, and so was the church. I didn't stop to look for Gruvak Aaren. The sight of his burned corpse shining; molten in the firelight, would have been too much. I wanted to help the others fight. Instead, I ran towards the stables.

My bronze was still tethered, and his tail lashed fitfully against the stone walls of his cell. I always kept him at the far end, in the darkest part of the building. He was smaller than the others, but faster, and vicious. When I reached for his reigns, iron lengths of chain I forged myself on his hatch day, he whirled around, hissing spitefully. Even his simple mind could feel the fear. Mounted up, I rode.

A youngling was cowering outside the stables, his dangerously pointed strands of hair tarnished and catching the firelight.

Have you fought for your sires? Do they live?

His eyes were wide, and I saw the answer was no. I remember sneering in contempt as I grabbed his arm roughly, pulling him onto the bronze behind me.

You are no warrior and no whelp; hold your own. I will not stop should you fall.

His mind returned a bit; stimulated by my direct order. Within his fear, desire for survival had grown.

Yes, Erava-lah.

I did not want him, but to give me my courtesies in his frightened weakness gave me hope. Our people would endure. I spurred the bronze harshly, and he ran into the night. I hoped our enemies were too busy slaying our weakest people to notice the strong escape. I was wrong.

A screech filled the night when they descended upon us; the youngling and I. They had miscalculated and dropped down too close. My bronze bit into one's leg as it touched down. A female. I smiled grimly at her, and her eyes reflected my own scaled face as I slashed her throat with the blade she'd failed to see hidden beneath my cloak. Their arrogance could sometimes be their undoing.

I had seen another of the monsters touch down as I had laid waste to the first. I looked for it; whipping my head around; long hair severing a nearby branch when it bestowed on the wood the gentlest of kisses. What I saw surprised me; my first real surprise in at least ninety years.

The youngling had leaped from my bronze and grabbed a broken branch when the attack began, and now stood staring at the corpse of the other attacker; propped up in the night with a pathetic bit of tree straight through his chest.

They are soft, Erava-lah.

Yes. That is why they come in the night with fire, youngling. They fear us.

He had Jareviel blood splashed across his brow. It bothered me. Perhaps I was feeling tender, but as I used my own cloak to clean off his face and restore his mirror-like, young scales to their brilliance, I smiled.

Our people will live.

Decay

These fruits, sweet in summer,
Oft decay quietly
Until we find them; rotting, spent
In little used, ill-purposed, sections
of our homes.