Wolves

In that state between sleep and wake

traversing birth and mortality

there is the faintest hint of earthy candles,

macabre dreams interrupted by sighs

the soft strophe of sonnets and the odd

sensation of strung pearls  falling like

tiny moons through my open palm.

At the boundaries I find you

not your spirit or  rose tinged snow,

but flesh and bone and sinew.

Now  I am sleeping less

roused by the wing beats of boreal Owls

circling   ancient Cypress,

their knife edge talons entwining knotty branches.

When sleep intrudes fitful winds  erupt

feathery curtains, vibrate my hemispheres.

A  swift breeze 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 meadows and

his eyes are the color of the eastern sky.

 

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wild Geese and gilded rivers

This is a day of  sun kissed

stones and summer winds,

of wild geese adorning river banks,

their graceful necks and gilded feathers

remind me that I am nothing more.

The lush arms of   live oak reach out

and up across  the fragrant waters

to weightless clouds.

Dipping my  fingers through slanted curtains

of  green and amber circlets I hold my

reflection in  cupped hands.

 

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