Does the wood pigeon know?
when he calls his coo into the night
the cats who stalk will slink toward
the smell of blood and feathers
as I have gathered myself into quills
and spices sealed in alabaster jar
the sum of me is traveled
through moon and sun
like a cut orange leaves her
stain on wood, sticky and bitter
as your imprint has become
my mandala and the furtherance of us
defies life and death
shaking itself off like a dog released from bath
will hurtle, maddened, toward nearest escape
I grew my vines in your wood
my embers are your fire
this melange of you and I
twined like grapes gathering sunlight
before first frost
and the women take in the clothes, hanging on frozen line
even as they capture the day’s warmth
you stretch in this paper thin life time
sew the jagged edges of my need
with your ivory needle
as if we were part of the same
garment
held up
by
sheer
force of
will
TheFeatheredSleep 