When, in her mystical barque,
The moon of many lilies
Glides across the dream-clad dark,
Her owls in her wake,
Their wings silent as eternity’s
Footsteps,
(Though nearby
Clouds of crystal geese
Chime on their snow-spun way)
Then
Out of the rocks
Misted lands
Will rise again
Now that the white-toothed one
Who sat on the throne
Has let slip his staff
Of silver bone
And his recipies
Of gloom
And dread
From his grime-
Grimmed hands
And has slid
Down into the deep
Depths
Of the smokened tomb
Of time.
Soon flocks
Of dawn-eyed does will
Drink from the blue spring
As before in the day
When the heron was the rain
And the lion the sun.
Then on the hill
The coyote will laugh
His translucent laugh;
In the valley
The butterfly
Will flit
To the petal
Of the water lily
To shake
Her orange head
And settle
Into sleep,
Her rainbowed eyelid
Shut in a ring
Of peace
While the moon slips by
On wind-lit
Paths
Over the lake
Of the wide sky.
Written around 2002
Photo: Boris Ryaposov / Dreamstime.com
This poem is so beautiful and full of hope.