There are many things, that I own
Which accumulates over the year...
a slow slag-heap-sun
slips into a...
I walked slowly across
your bed made of soft grains of sand...
Thundering clouds and rumbling waves
Crushed the bones of those who were brave...
I braided the roots of a tree
to save within a music box...
Her voice now whispers
a softer tone breezes through...
Farewell at last to winters frosty sting
and all the chilly times of snow and sleet...
The caged bird is now
flying in the universe...
By Ben Pickard and Maple Tree
A small acorn, from my nature soul...
I seek you in the woodland;
for you are the forest...
I am a little rivulet
I am not yet thought of as a stream...
Chirping the secrets
Of their heartbeats, in a cage...