Monday, August 5, 2013

The Storm



She conjures

 with her drum, her dulcimer

 hammering flashes of light,

 the wild spirit that sleeps

within me, this pale casement of  bones.


I leave my body’s frame, woman

gowned in air and flame,  wandering

toward the western shore

where stones meet the gale,

where tides meets the sand

and shadows patch the sea.


She conjures with her song

a deeper scent of  salt and pine.

Oh! Brine, Oh! Brisk Juniper

become my perfume, my way


of enticing the dead

to rise and come. My young highwayman

give me your hand, your wrist

and let us share for these spare

moments – an immortal pulse.

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