Woven of the Wind



Where will you go

Now, little pigeon, pearl white and black jet?

Will you perch on the petals

Of the moon

And peck at tufts of cloud and raindrops?

Will your wings be woven of the wind

And your eyes of starlight hewn?

Will you fly with pigeon angels

To a faraway flowered land

To feathered friends known

Well from feathered dreams?

Where will you go

Now, little one,

Now that the sun has set

And the new moon gleams

Bright through the mist

Over the tall pines?

Will you pass this way someday again

In a sunlit distant springtime?

Will you nod your head to say hello

And walk with happy feet

Among the snow and buttercups?


© Sharon St Joan, written around 1990

Photo: © Aqvamarin / Dreamstime.com

Where now?



Where now the dark-circling


Wolves?  Where the half-haunting


Moon?  Where the swift paws running?


Where now the mists


That rose above the lake


In the early spring?


Are the spirits all flown to that far country


Beyond the black hills of night


The hills of indigo?


Where butterflies flicker


In bright mythic




Where the great raven


Smiles in her cosmic




And ruffles her feathers in the cool air


Scattering stars across the open sea below?


Written around 2009

© Sharon St Joan

Photo: Rackam | Dreamstime.com







Heron of grace, blue buffoon


Of elegance


Stretching his endless


Wings over the moon


Wading on spider toes


Through still






Among glass reeds


That glitter in a radiance


Of emerald beads,


Beyond the hill


The world dips


Under lace of lavender


Into the ringed smoke of cities,


Fallen and gone,


While, in opalescent flight,


The heron slips


Upwards through the windows


Of many lilies


Into the open night


Of the rain-winged dawn.


Written around 1998


Photo: Great blue heron. Photo by Gary Kramer, USFWS / “If an image on one of our sites is not restricted and does not say it is copyrighted, then you can assume it is in the public domain.” – USFWS

One day

One day

There may appear

A pale gray


Who floats

In the silent summer sun

Wings black-tipped, courrier

Of archaic worlds,

White petal of the ineffable,


To follow

Only the voice that the unlistening

Never hear,

Only the ever-haunting wind

Outside the walled gate,

To sail off to a high

Cliff still clad in coats

Of scraps of snow

A place of rushing wings

Flickering waters,

And sky-footed goats

Who leap

Where only the graceful go.


Written around 2001


Photo:  © Michael Miller | Dreamstime.com / Male northern harrier

Spotted towhee


Spotted towhee

On a day,



As an unsettled fairy

Of the mountain,

Her hair

Caught in a half-done braid,

What do the shadows portend,


In the misted wind?

As light

Falls, the dragon

At the far end

Of the shale


Of the night

By the undawning retreat

Of his lair,

Paces, his wide

Paws restless.

But nevermind,

The lilies shine,

Where lapping waters linger

At the bend

In the gold river

Where the glad, brave feet

Of the spotted towhee



On his wings,

And hop

From rock to silver rock, wise,

And undismayed.

And beyond, before the sun

Can rise,

Rings of rain


The hallowed head of the raven

Who walks through the town

Of clouds, child-mists in train,

Radiant king of all things.


Written September 5, 2011

Photo: Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 3.0 Unported license http://www.naturespicsonline.com/