dawn

we grow
afraid of ourselves
come morning.

deva

o my heart
wails
the newborn heart
clutching
to the
loving one

the opening

my mind paints you
with different colours;
pitch-black as tall pines,
blue as the evening restless wind,
and seagrass on high cliffs
touched by a little shadow,
a little light.

after three months

beloved,
I am now
more used
to your body
than my own;
you
are the
new border
of the new moon
of my arms.

cry

heard but did not listen
and the door
does not wait

sight

the sun was new gold
dust was old gold
pitted and beaten
and even the night
was sewn up with gold
at both ends.
fortunately
we did not weigh it
until after it travelled
out of our hands.

prayer

the palms of the hands
turned up
as leaves before the wind

ununderstand

the song
is not long gone
from the singer

reverence

call out in the evening
and, I promise,
I will make you a dawn.

careful

this heart is the one heart
therefore, take care;
do not leave moments behind
as though you could gather them

don't toss them as alms - no one else
will pick up the thread where you left off
we dance in and out of the Beloved
but each heart is the one heart

therefore, take care.

knowledge

o, you are not there;
you are here,
but you let me look for you.

prayer

bright mother morning
scatter your paws across the horizon;
let your whiskers tap the tree on the shoulder,
let your tail brush the stars out of the sky.
one eye, winking, will be the late moon-
and your windy claws rap on the windows.
warm fur mother morning, bring me my day!

red

o love
my head feels
the swing of your shoulder
even after
we've passed ways.

amusement

as long as you
turn over in sleep
I'm awake, awake in dreaming;
my heart is awake
all night long.

imagery deformed

the wind is outside, quick:
listen to the first leaf
falling out of summer.

query

colour-born, don't
see in black and white-
you were given gold and silver
on the very first day.

bastet

o, I will
pull the long tail
of the morning cat!

greeting

in the morning
I come walking
unraveling my heart
for each wind
I come home again
at indigo
threaded
to each direction
spirit weaving world.

quarter call

with the fire
is the derivation
of wood;

water spits
between branches,
digs through.

one mote of ash
flies; the rest
the wind ignores

- swinging back
and forth
the dirt settles