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.