Between sleep and wake we

fall like stones into a silent lake

traversing birth and mortality.

Water pearls drop from  unfastened palms

tiny moons slipping through fingers.

Deeper I find you in the  iris of cat eyes,

not your spirit or rose tinged snow but

flesh and bone and sinew whose sigh is

an ancient strophe where we do not die

but flourish with the  sprouting seeds.

 

 

 

 

 

42 thoughts on “In This Dream”

  13. Holly, your leading words are punctuated by the reference to “flesh and bone and sinew whose sigh….” I find myself awakening in the morning wondering if my wife has risen. Then, I hear her sigh. Those sighs are beacons. Well done, Keith

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