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1.

 

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.

 

2.

 

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.

 

3.

 

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.

 

4.

 

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.