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Under the night sky
in the hills, terror
is always near.
Eyes grow
wide and worshipful
when stars seem so close,
the air so clean.
Deep aches
brought from the valley below
spill into consecrated caves.
Forgotten silences
play out their stories
in front of a goddess’
smiling face.
No wonder the hills
seem haunted.
Carrying the debris
of a million souls
unhesitatingly, exchanging tumult
for benediction, to make
new spaces in owners
who will not own
what they spill, is not easy.
Shilon--
was the name of the hills
where I gathered
wild flowers for you,
and fallen cones that lie
scattered in our garden path.
Can you still hear
the morning song of the woman
who rose before dawn
to tease us apart
for a while?
Why is the smell of pine
another name for memories
that will not go?
Where are you now?
I want to believe
that you sit under a pine tree
recollecting my perfume.
I want to believe
in impossible things--
in a love that will outlive
the murmurings of desire,
in a strength that never turns
its own enemy, in a world
innocent of ravaging.
Under the night sky in the hills,
terror is always near. Surely,
you must feel it too.
The sound of your breathing
mistaken for mine,
blows in its breeze.
Its air
cradles the moment
of our body’s clumsy vial breaking
to reveal love’s alchemy.
Tonight, as a familiar tumult
surfaces,
that rising and falling feeling
rising to the hills, I know
that its time
for me to journey
for my soul’s spring cleaning
under that night sky, lifting
my wide open eyes
to the stars
in a confession
that needs no words. |
