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Rain falls from my hands as I raise the latch.


Where the drops strike loam,

A white mare appears.


Hundreds of mares run over the hillsides!


Vines rise from the whirling manes;

The hooves take root.


White roses burst from the mares’ closed eyes.


Pressing a petal to my chest,

I descend where the ground has opened.


The words I speak become seeds.




When a hawk circled beneath the river,

Its shadow entered my sleep.


What had been stilled moved; clarity returned.


Dreams began to fall from my shoulders,

Stirring me until I woke.


I smiled as I leaned from the door they had opened.

As I stepped forward, 

A map shook loose from another’s dream

And fell into my hands.


I held it up so that my dreams could grasp it.


Roots burst from my lungs

And the sun rose.




Stepping to the foot of the stairs,

I watch the moon’s reflection become a wing.


Words sprout from its hardened edge,

Darting above the hills.


Stones begin to sing! 


I understand little at first.


Sounds rush past, twirling

The buds they have gathered.


Understanding more and more,

I begin to tremble.




I will return the bones, scale and keys,

Knowing wild flowers bloom

Where I have stumbled.


What a short, lovely season!


I have enjoyed the coolness of morning:

Watched shadows dapple pine;

Rested, hand to loam.


What remains seems wrapped in mended cloth,

As if to be a reminder.


I can sense a broader field ahead.