There is a sweet river that is life.
I submerge in it’s effervescence
and like a thousand tributaries it
reaches out bold as ancient pyramids.
My hands course through weeds of silver,
like your hair they catch the light,
reflections of the sky and more.
When I wake you are beside me,
the life force of the river touches me,
This page is filled with peril,
the pen is a black snake.
Her chest is filled with moths
their ragged wings beat the walls
of the darkest cave.
Slender wrists are heavy with flies
they are keen on something sweet
but her hands seek seams of silver
that slip away like starlings,
or veins of gold embedded stone.
A flock of Starlings in Scotland…Scott Heppell AP
The earth is powdered snow.
The sun rises in myriad hues.
Nightingales refuge in my closet
to mourn December’s last refrain.
Contrails light the wings of Jays
that flit beneath the lit doorway
settle softly into January’s chill
Shelter in a pale winter bed
“One day we will learn to give and receive love like an open window and it will feel like summer everyday”
Translation by Bernd @ Neues Vom Hutschi
Birds soar high above the ice chiseled cliffs, roil over ancient forests at the moss covered foothills of Mountains. I hear the voices of ancestors, perverse whispers of hate and grudges, they are witness to our deception. They know the gaps in our souls are filled with the same darkness as theirs. When we once again come face to face they will tell us how the hours passed so quickly. You are that bird whose wings beat the air senseless, rainstorm eyes protest a dream unlived. That perfect blue honey of desire you washed away in golden brown. Swoop down, I miss the sound of you. Tell me how to survive beginnings. Save me from this carousel, my arms outstretched not knowing I am still spinning.
May your Christmas be merry and bright…
Photo by Holly