as one
within the quiet
a dream I can’t retire
like still the
peacock pillows
puddle orange light
as years beyond
the telling –
of every
almost story

blue veins weave
my mystery
slid beneath my surface
as golden rivers
melt the willing ice
remembered me
another sun –
beyond the leaving time
held within the passions
of the deep

fail me with
the memories
and wait the lights
to fade –
as secrets scatter
broken to the glass
come the grace
of morning –
as praise for nights between
will find me here
wondering why
it is

fingers warm
the spindle –
of an ag’ed spinning wheel
crimson threads
burn through these realms
of steel

. . .