Walk through gates of my being
As you did…
The woodland pastures.
I am an openness
In the calamity
Of a star.
Walk through gates of my being
As you did…
The woodland pastures.
I am an openness
In the calamity
Of a star.
Oh to be
As light as a bird
In the fields
Of gold…
Lighter than
The wind
Dancing
Secretively,
Beneath her wings…
Lost in
The memories
Of our Land.

In the lofty mist
Of a white day,
Notes of oud
Tethered a snowy billow,
Parting a will to rest.
An earthly warmth
Was not ready,
And yet he pleaded
With fingers
That could not pray.
The smoke passed
As an afterthought,
A cold day in Spring.
I wonder when last
He saw his garden…
If he’ll visit, with wings.
“Our depth is a shallow
In the seas of being
The iris of existence.
Our ideas…
Warmth and cold.
Oil pastels…
Upon the pupil.”

What if a thought, perhaps a few,
In every snowflake that fell for you,
Where to chime in its own way?
They all would, though indifferently…
Theirs is not a frosty hymn.
I know they came from a warmer spring.
Past the mountains in unknown groves,
A sun implored them… and now lets go.
These letters are want the days
That I’ll remember few,
When we galloped fields of sage
And valleys of featherfew.
There you hummed a poets lines,
When of sage rose grape vines;
And threaded the night a gown
With lamp lights that littered town.
I couldn’t as a stranger pass
As you dressed a virgin land,
A language braided of the past
With a homeless heart and handless hand.
So your hills I braved
When you unearthed to me,
As we with night behaved,
Where you conceived a doorless key.
My elegy births a war
Though it conceived
An idea of hope.
And we wondered,
‘What was beautiful?’ ,
Growing through the loom
Of a departed life.
What was beautiful?
It was hope,
To be free of wants
And profits of our souls.
…a place between far and home.”
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