Desperate Gardens

Near daybreak, my eyes close,

my mind steps down into our most

beloved poem

*In a dark time the eye begins to see,
I meet my shadow in the deepening shade …

I look out upon our desperate gardens.

A raven sits motionless on the branch

of a skeleton tree greedily eyeing the

tiny lark all feathers and bone.

In the state between sleep and wake

I traverse birth and mortality,

the faintest hint of earthy candles

sweeps the orb of my celestial dreaming

a sensation of  pearls like tiny moons

falling from my open palms ,

and you,  whose sigh is a strophe

of sonnets, waits far at the boundary,

not a spirit or  rose tinged snow

but flesh and bone and sinew.

Alone, now  I am sleeping less,

roused by the wing beats of Boreal Owls

circling ancient Cypress trees

their screech a fist of wind with knife edge

talons erupt through feathery curtains,

breech my seclusion,

dark traces that vibrate my hemispheres.

A lofty  breeze lifts me over the valley

to a moonlit hillside of sweet lea.

There  an ivory  fox lies down beside me.

He is the scent of ripe wheat fields

his eyes are the color of the eastern sky.

*In A Dark Time by Roethke

 

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