Rich

The thing that hangs over me is a foreboding tree; dark & heavy each limb.
Though, it’s shadows loom dismal & large, it still bears fruit I can pick on a whim.

Shadows & shafts that compete neath a canopy tell a whole tale, which is deep.
Depth in the shade & bright in the light…either has a story & tears to weep.

Some would balk at the the murky shade with fear unfounded & thin as a whisper.
The same prefer the critique of the sun; trusting only views that are crisper.

There’s something truer in life under roofs green; where light fights to play with the dark.
Opposites mingle on mossy stage; where opposition is no longer stark.

A story cannot only be told with what’s already apparently known.
Eyes must adjust & come to ken secrets, I myself, daunting shadow has shown.

Imagining tapestry tomes of my life, I find myself concerned with pitch.
For…what’s the tone of songs sung purely of fact? I’d much prefer my yarn be rich.