Between sleep and wake
traversing birth and death
there is the faint hint of earthy
Macabre dreams are scattered like
strophes of sonnets
the sensation of pearls spilling
like tiny moons through open fingers.
At the boundary I find you
not a spirit or rose tinged snow
but flesh and bone and sinew.
I am sleeping less now
roused by the wing beats of boreal owls
circling an ancient Cypress,
their knife edge talons entwined in
webs of moss clinging to knotty limbs.
Fitful gusts burst through
barriers of creaking walls vibrating
my hemispheres to consciousness.
A celestial tapestry of recollection
lifts me over the valley to a moonlit
hillside of sweet lea where a silver
wolf lies beside me.
He is the scent of golden wheat and
his eyes are the color of the eastern sky.