I have not sadness
when I am dreaming;

no needs within
the fluorescent purple

night. Not like wolves
who walk with hunger

in their yellowed eyes or
screaming birds circling

through the clouds. At the end
of my road, I'll tell my story

for now, I am making it-
rays of light, dense darkness,

a carpet made of grass
and flowers, the rose's

beating heart, the heavy
rains falling like a thousand

drums on the silvered roof
of God's house. Prepare

to wake! the ancient sun
begins its morning prayers;

the voice that lifts
the mountains up and far

into the air pointing
towards a distant threshold.

1 comment:

Rosemary Nissen-Wade said...

Wish I'd written this!