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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Wolves

I am sleeping less,

roused by wingbeats of Boreal Owls

circling ancient Cypress,

gripping knotty branches with a  clutch

of talons .

When I  close my eyes fists of  wind

breech  my seclusion, erupt through

unbound curtains of dark recollections

that  vibrate through my hemispheres.

A soft breeze carries me through the

valley to a  moonlit hillside of sweet lea.

A silver wolf lies down  beside me.

He is the scent of golden meadows and

his eyes are the color of an eastern sky.