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.