Whose wings did you borrow
Then, before you walked on
The moon of many rains,
In open disregard
Of the etiquette
Of butterflies,
Their way lost less,
On the ice than in the dry
Desert skies?
Perhaps that is why
The gap underfoot yawns,
And it is hard
To evade even
The shadow;
Nothing to do though, but
Wait.
The leaves of Shiva play their
Flute in the dusk of silver snow.
The power of kindness
Rests within
The great,
Holy acacia tree, near where
The leopard remains,
Standing guard,
Defender,
In the echoing dawns.
By Sharon St Joan
Written September 25, 2010
Photo: Kitchner Bain / Dreamstime.com