Beneath the Midnight Sun

I like cemeteries. For me, there is no death, there is only life. The birds above me sing divinely and I record this poem as I walk up and down row upon row of life. My hair whips in the wind, nature is alive and on fire and the spirits of those around me guide and teach me. They tell me to keep going and that everything is fine. They tell me that I am loved and watched over. They tell me not to worry so much. They tell me that life, my dear soul, life is good. This is what I share with them and what I share here, with you: We bear witness to our birth, our death, to days that go by spent beneath the sun of the mystery, only to rest upon the breast of Autumn's breath. We are witness to change and fall then rise like leaves and snowflakes, drifting and landing on the lashes of children, such dear souls, playing, innocent, upon the mighty banks of Mother Nature. We are witness to our birth as Spring arrives, unannounced, unplanned for, bearing buds and bees that buzz and blooms in June, beneath the deepest eye of the sun of the spirit. She is on fire, dear bright star, dear friend. - Miss Majestic Mother Nature, Oh, how you make sweet love with Father Sky - The night falls. I sit beneath ancient raiment, staring up, above, and into us all - existing here. Nothing to fix, nor change or even say - but to simply be here now - sharing my heart beneath the Midnight Sun. © Susan Marie