With White ground and blue sky, a pale moon man
Walking on ice and breathing force
We melt everything within and without.
And even though he is a mirror cold,
Frozen in time and unable to see beyond the self,
He is aware of the little bird that lands in my dream.
A haunted locket carrying footsteps and a ring around her eyes,
Witchcrafted in the heart, weaving the dreams into snowflakes, they
Become indistinguishable from the soul.
A dead planter outside will born life again when the sheer
Madness of season is transmogrified into a woman walking
Down the street with bare skin to the sun rays.
And no one can stop looking.
The magnetic force of breath and all I do is step into a melted
Puddle of snow clinging onto the degrees that brought it to life.
The same degree of the pale moon man,
Who has eyes that cut like the end.
We are communicating with God, dialoguing in sleep and wake
About the fires and the spiders that speak to me when I dream.
Buried salt that refused to blow in the hard dried wind
Of your swift disappearance.
I found myself with white eyelashes as I sifted through the storm
And slipped on the white ground.
Losing a piece of my skin each time I let go,
I am like a dried piece of clay, left out in the sun too long that I
Begin to crack and leave something behind, leave a part
Of myself behind.
Dried, cracking, fractled clay.
Pale moon man, use your breathing force, to breathe me
Into softness, into rejuvenation and oneness.
The sky is blue, and you are large.
An Elegy.