The Forest - Original Work

Lifted, the leaf rises over dewy morn.
Curling tender embrace towards the sky.
Frost peeling from shaking timber.
The winter retreats, fangs dripping.

Water gurgling across open brook, while we lean back against rocky crook.
Sheep wandering slow across sheltering glade, while shepherd keeps watch, what vigilant gaze.
They say moss won't gather on the rolling stone, what if it roils? watery tomb.
The mind casts about with a sinewy net, while the flock brings tongue to wet.
Communal wine.

Now the world has flipped and turned, the shepherds field is cracked and burned.
Asphalt maze to confound, tortured screams just rebound.
From glasses held high tears overflow.
Into the grate, sewers so far below.
Shit never stinks.

Only to the high is it possible to fall, level the playing field, not so tall, but what speak the seed easing from the tree?
That cycle is pressured, forced? should cease to be?
I disagree.
Live and let live.
Be and let Be.