wolves

In the  state between sleep and wake

traversing birth and death

there is the faintest hint of earthy candles

macabre dreams interrupted by the

strophe of sonnets, a sensation of

spilling pearls like tiny moons falling

through my open palm.

At the boundaries I find you

not your spirit or  rose tinged snow

but flesh and bone.

I am sleeping less now

roused by the wing beats of boreal owls

circling an   ancient Cypress,

their knife edge talons entwined in sprays

of silky moss clinging to  knotty branches.

Fitful wind gusts burst through  barriers of

creaking walls vibrating my hemispheres into

consciousness.  A  celestial  tapestry of recollection

lifts  me over  the valley to a  moonlit hillside

of sweet lea where a silver wolf lies down  beside me.

He is the scent of golden wheat and

his eyes are the color of the eastern sky.