More Splendid than Byzantium

No fantasy,
this mossy forest floor,
the decay, the spoor,
the symmetry and artistry
that cushions sole and soul.

The tiny wren
or lowly sparrow, no golden bird
on golden bough.  This song
is real – a trill
that’s born of being.

No drunken merriment
pollutes the air.  No shining
armor here.  All highs
and lows
are measured by the trees.

The breeze a voice
that comforts weary  travelers.
The spirits here are friendly,
complex without complexity.
No artifice in this eternity.

2 thoughts on “More Splendid than Byzantium

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