The Theatre

The Theatre

I heard distant news in my travels
tales of a satire called Seasons played at the Maytime theatre
a teasing romance of comedy and mortality, melancholy and tragedy and people laughed and with their masks they had no other reason to be.

Act i

From the aqueous womb you, my spring child
arrived at the theatre
served up cart blanche, a seedling
for flowering fruition, a thrust of inspiration and hope.

And the muse fountained fiestas
watching over you as you rooted for sustenance to ascend
from the fluid transfusion of my summer self
and with the gentle, spring raining, we began tuning the matrix.

How sweet the fragrance of this potential
as the fawn flourished in the dawn’s rainbow rays
a gentle sharing of the soul chord
and I was seduced by visions of distant lush, chartreuse.

Act ii

In the sunlight of infinite promise
of cinnamon coffee, almonds and lemonade
in whimsical banter, that winsome allure of endless markets
presenting sweet offerings of summer limes and mint.

Through the golden angel hair turning sanguine solstice
invincible you, your butterscotch summer with my spicy fall
in the balmy air I felt no burden though, with brief hesitation, I did glance
at the melting ice cream castles in the drawing of these kelpie tales.

Where your summer fell into my hyperbole
It was shiny pencil boxes and soft pink erasers of promise
as I ebbed through the motions, though not yet Shakespearean
still hoping with a facade of a comedy theatre under the stars.

Act iii

The autumn storms brought enough shifting cacophony
to burn the crust of my apple pies
acrid clues that maybe this is also, just another dazzling circus show
and we still hold the facade and laugh as we fall.

The seedling bell jar I used in your spring
I now use myself as an animating mask
of crimson, burnt orange and the tawny browns
trying to muffle the lament of distorted dreams.  

With all my strength, I brace for the deep snowy pass
in the 11th hour of this earthly play,
my in-between time moving into the feminine,
to the dark, to the realm of the observer.

Act iv

This last act is tempting this catcher in the rye
not so afraid to risk the arid desert dry,
at times I bring it very close
in atonement as a salamander in my ruminations.

Though death! do not brag thou yet for I do not
yet understand life so how can I meet with you
I am not ready to wander in your shade
the calling of darker days with winter carrying my ruins.

I still need the sol to plant better seeds
we are of nature and we reap what we sow
I too am still a lamb but all around me, wolf
yet the owl speaks, that the turtle must return to the sea.

Encore

The curtain falls but with the encores, the end,
a series of enlightenments sparing some time
so the actor can shift states, Le Papillon releases the conflict
a wintering of transformation and awakenings.

I still rock my spring babe wrapped in a cloak, even now
with cane frosted under leafless trees
sleep is deepening and the zenith dreams bring calm somehow
inching into the hibernating pause. 

To you, my summer I say, look, see, the lapis lazuli
the papillon of me as it flutters and will stay
with you into your fall as I move to the indigo
where the moon still shifts in many a denouement.

~ namasté, Leah J. 🕊

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