Tall,
To the sun
And the moon they rise,
Pillars
That hold up the land
Of the stars,
In the early morning
Of time.
Where the chime
Of butterflies
Rings in the mist
Of clouds,
Where the horses of the wind climb
Archaic hills, peace settles,
Free from the shrouds
Of thought bewildered.
When the grinding wheels
Of the rattling cars,
The careening cart,
Of the manic race of beings that never stops
Have stopped, unspinned,
And fallen down
From the lofty wall,
Their memory lies
Quiet,
Dimming,
In the cheerful company
Of ghosts,
In the sooted
Shambles of empires
Cast
Under the snapping heels
Of fate.
Then
The coyotes
And the ever-knowing raven
Will run again
In gladness,
Across the red rock sand.
The wild hills, free now,
As the lilies
Of eternity
Who bow
In the wandering wind
By the bright
And undiscovered
Sea.
After the horns
Of many winters
Have fallen silent,
The husk
Of time
Discarded,
The aspiring rose will lift
Her head again
Among the rocks, resilient,
In the ice-enchanted
Spring.
The wind will sing.
Stones
Will shine, blessed in the twinkling
Emptiness
Of night.
The crow
Hops
In black
Clouds that inhabit
A sky of joy;
Coyotes laugh last
In the dance of the dusk,
And the ancient,
Earlier folk
Walk
To take back
The sacred mountain
Stolen
So long ago,
Now that the age of the unholy
Will be ended and done,
Gone
On the smoke
Of the fleeing mist.
Under a delicate crown
Of forest
Leaves, mice play
Among their catch,
The silver
Trinkets of the dead,
And talk
A while of feats of yore.
Herons glimmer,
One-footed,
On the green, tree-
Shouldered river.
Such an ill wind
That blew
Into the bones
Of the soul
Of men,
And stayed, corroding
The core
Of history,
Such a grim, unseemly game,
Like thorns
Lodged in the heart,
But when the scales fall
Away,
One by one by one,
Then
In the end there are only
The plain, rain-lit,
And the rose that flowers anew,
The innocent petals
Of nevermore,
And the farmer’s boy
Who whistles
In the strawberry patch,
By the lop-sided shack,
Where the corn stalks grow,
His blue
Hat adrift
On his head,
In the town
With no name,
Where the raven rules, with the snow-
Winged geese.
The sun holds the empty bowl,
Blessed be his ashen fires.
Agni, the one
Who returns
All
Back to the beginning.
Set the burning
Lanterns
Out and wait
In peace,
From within the rock and mist
To hear a killdeer call,
To sail away
To a far and luminous shore,
Known so well from long before,
On the flaming ships of dawn.
© Sharon St Joan, 2021
