“The smallest seed of faith is better than the largest fruit of happiness.”
– Henry David Thoreau
Fresh prints appear on the snows of my remembering
The erupting silence awakens me from hibernation.
I rise to track you through the Milky Way only to tumble back to earth-
You shape shift in the darkness
My pounding heart chases after you into the shadows
Ancestors could call on you once upon a memory. They knew your songs.
This wayward daughter has forgotten the old ways, instincts dulled by abuse
Your golden gaze quiets the breath of this lonely hunter.
Your Sister Moon descends; her light fills my empty belly.
I surrender my arrows, confess my broken vows
I weep my relief into your midnight fur.
You force me to the highest ground, we enter the Spirit Dance
Print by Ian Sexton – © 2007
New York, NY
Buddha in the backyard
sits in old snow, worn
stories in his generous lap.
Lights genuflect, ripen
around faralitos. I carry Santa Fe
in my mouth—a luminous language,
amplified between forefinger and thumb.
All Rights Reserved