By Sharon St Joan
Within the rose
Shining in the night,
A shimmering cloud
Grows,
Within the night
A crowd
Of trees walking,
Walking through bright
Hills of mist,
Back to the beginning
Again,
Back to the sacred – not forgotten – forest
Of rains and stars and winged beings,
Of boats that sail long in the rushing rivers of the skies.
There floats
Within the lake-enchanted eyes
Of the tiger;
In an ember of perception,
The presence
Of Durga,
Who holds up the resilient dagger
Of truth,
Imparting the courage
To be walking
Through fields of lilies,
On dimming days,
Through the magic of the gloam,
Guided by the long-known
Beings of light,
By the souls of the trees
Going home,
By the trees
That remember
Always.
In the night of the swan
Who knows
All things
Within the fire,
The river of eternity,
The beings walk on
Within the voice, lone, not far away,
Of the great-horned owl
Who calls,
In reply to the howl
Of the winds of the night,
And who guides lost feet
In the frost
Of winter’s time,
In the sleet,
In the snows,
In the reflection,
Dancing on the ice,
Breaking in the spring,
In the sound of the chime
Of the ancient day,
Returning.
The higher
Truth of the light
And the walking, not alone,
Where the souls of the trees
Breathe
In the holy darkness
And in the brightness
Of the day that is yet to be,
Shining.
© Sharon St Joan, 2020
Written August 28, 2020