My dreams are crowded, lately.

I dreamed that Karawynn was growing flowers from her body. She was lying down, and a hooded man stood over her prone form, cutting off the flowers with a small silver sickle as they bloomed, binding them into bundles and laying them on a large platter that hung from chains from the ceiling. Peope were coming by and plucking bundles of flowers off of the platter, choosing what they would take with them carefully.

I approached the platter, and could not decide which bundle I wanted. They all seemed equally pretty, and they were all fragrant.

I don't remember if I ever decided which bundle I wanted.

I dreamed that Chris and Misha and S and I were watching TV together, in the living room of Bonsai Oaks. They left, and left me alone with S,and I curled up next to him, feeling his familiar warmth. I remember feeling deeply puzzled about what I was doing there. I was afraid, but comforted anyway, and the longer I stayed the more the fear faded, replaced by comfort.

I dreamed that I was on a horse ranch, sitting on a fence, watching D do tricks on the back of a horse. There was a dog lying at my feet.

I dreamed I was in a greenhouse, and Kender was helping me plant some cuttings. I said something, and she put her hand on my arm. I looked at her,and she kissed me, and as my mind whirled, she disappeared. I was alone, breathing the still, damp air. Behind me, a goldfish broke the surface of the pond with a splash.

I have these times when people I know wander through my nights, as if they are either lost or they want to tell me something. My subconcious, dredging up things it think i've resolved and speaking me in the language it knows best.

philosophies of shadow

tonight, there is wind
and a sickle moon, sharply
carved in the sky, all blade,
a golden weapon slicing the horizon
to the bone.

First one step, then another.
and another.
So we move in the oldest rhythm.

Smelling the spring laid lightly
on the air, the scent of earth warming
and the first pollens staining the air,
tempting the sleepy bees in their winter hives.

it is difficult to speak to the darkness of love.
words pass from my lips and fail to shake the sky.
I tongue my teeth, fail again, speak in the silent
persuasive language of a sickle moon and whirling planets.

And fail again.

I listen. The lake echoes me, draws me in,
casts me back. I lower my face to the surface
hidden among the dry cattails. water, teach me to speak.

It casts me up once more, alone.

Water. Teach me to speak!

And once again, I speak into the darkness, but not of
human conceits. I talk of the wild moon and the race
of nectar, summer's frantic spin and the peace
of epogee. I speak of lakes, solstices, the mayfly lives
of goat, human, whale, elephant. I speak of all of these things
and I speak small words of comfort, of belonging, of family,
of that from which one is cleaved and towards which one works
for the rest of time. I speak to the universe of love,
though it cannot hear me.

water, teach me to speak.
earth, teach me to be silent.

sickle moon pierces the sky.
I keep the long watch, guarding
the uneasy sleep of spring, approaching.

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