Within the bowl
Of translucent roses,
A star-sung reality.
The meaning is the soul
Of the word; which word?
The unseen hand weaves
Together the forest mists
Into the far, far lights – the hooked beak of the bird,
Green mountains, the cliffs,
The spirit houses
Which have ever been present
In the depths beyond time,
More real than the silver sparkling leaves
Of the aspen trees
Near the flickering domain
Of the sage
More real than the turning tidal sound of the seas,
More real than the fog-bound whiffs
Of bison noses
In the cold-trodden winters of the plain.
No, you cannot find them in the bending
Desert sage –
Until they are within you.
Beyond the swift-footed fires of the sun,
Beyond the leaping waters that hurl
Themselves from heights
Down steep mountain rocks,
Beyond only the winds that curl
Along the empty docks
Of the shipyards of forgotten time,
The spirit houses, within earshot of the sounding chime
In the light-toed, gray-winged rain
That blows through all the realms from age
To age to age
To snow-enchanted age,
While the wild horse
Runs with his herd
His ancient course,
His hooves flying,
Through wind-lit streams of moonbeams.
© Sharon St Joan, July 2019