Borough in the Mist, revealed

The autumn leaves have started falling. Yellowed. Aged or matured? They have lived their puny lives on the tree. Like the sunlight they drank in everyday, they have become—the colour of the sun. In their freedom from life on the tree, is grace. They will rest in the grass, melt into the soil of collective consciousness and this energy will rise on another tree sometime in the future.So are my poems in this collection. They grew within. Each taking a different shape, a structure as definite and free as the thought, each speaking of the time it saw and soaked. They filled me up, as long as they grew on me. They ate of my flesh and drank of my blood. These are my creations. Eventually, they had to meet the earth on which I stand. New leaves must replace the earlier ones. Yet, they would belong to me in the sense the air, earth, water, fire, light and darkness belong to me. The endless cycle of ideas and words falling in composition the time ordains must go on.Like many others of my ilk, I love painting with words. But, the mere picture is not enough. I must see that it reflects, the seen and unseen. I must, like a seeker, seek the world of my dreams.