House of Heart

Between sleep and wake

traversing birth and death

there is the faint hint of earthy


Macabre dreams are scattered like

strophes of sonnets

the sensation of pearls spilling

like tiny moons through open fingers.

At the boundary I find you

not a spirit or rose tinged snow

but flesh and bone and sinew.

I am sleeping less now

roused by the wing beats of boreal owls

circling an ancient Cypress,

their knife edge talons entwined in

webs of moss clinging to knotty limbs.

Fitful wind gusts burst through

barriers ofcreaking walls vibrating

my hemispheres toconsciousness.

A celestial tapestry of recollection

lifts me over the valley to a moonlit

hillsideof sweet lea where a silver

wolf lies beside me.

He is the scent of golden wheat and

his eyes are the color of the eastern sky.

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