RoseAnn V. Shawiak Poems

Roaming mountains, watching the sun lower itself beyond the horizon in the west.
Riding and running faster, trying to get to the shelter of the forest before night falls completely over him in darkness.
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Slopes filled with pure white snow,
glistening in the morning sun.
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Hearing sadness,
voicing it's deep-set sorrow in
slow-moving rhythms of mourning.
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Searching the world over, skipping some places,
knowing that they are off limits to everyone.
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Catching clouds, riding them through skies of imagination
just for the thrill of it all.
Soaring with the eagles, being accepted and brought under
their wings for protection in the cold atmosphere.
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Hearing voices calling from front porches in a small town,
where I was born.
Loving it's surrounding peaceful forests of beauty.
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Settling down among the brambles of life, hurting from their
natural contexts and crying tearfully, yet not moving an inch.
Searching for the words to yell, but cannot find even a
syllable to voice.
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Nose-diving into depths of patterns, feeling their textures
and sensing their sweet garden aromas as they twiddle in
rhythm's lair.
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Softly entering my spirit,
pulling me into a symphony of interior beauty.
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