wolves

Between sleep and wake

traversing birth and death

there is the faint hint of earthy

candles.

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.

What would it feel like

to step into courage,
rush forward without hesitation
the way of the  Leopard whose cubs are in danger?
To  face  our greatest fear,
adrenaline heart pounding,
confronting  the enemy in an arena of dread.
Challenge the antagonist,  face down the bully
fight the battle until it is won,
how would it feel?
Is there no place for courage in these
empty vessels?
It is   safer to accept what we fear
we can’t change.

 

 

Play it Safe