Less Real Than

I'm not aware of many things.
How do I prepare myself to wound
what I have healed?

I must ask the soul simply
how to recognize itself
in the dark

like the owl who leaves
its home and flies
focused and low.

Our path is not defined;
prisoner or freed our road
is dream, our wakening

shifting, changing.

Everything else, the beautiful
fading images, the coherent
fabulous things are less

real than memory.


Nobius said...


You're simply wonderful Rachel.

RachelW said...

I was sad to see the wolf-girl was gone. I enjoyed meeting her through your poem and I hope she will be back here one day.

Rachel Phillips said...

Thank you both for you comments!

RachelW said...

Thank you for bringing the wolf-girl back!

Okir said...

This is beautiful & mysterious

Rosemary Nissen-Wade said...

I am amazed all over again with every new poem, at the way you go straight to my heart and soul like a laser.

Is it the honesty, the simplicity, the beauty, the craft, the message...? All of them: it's the POETRY!