it appears
you look
for the easy way . . .
no rocks, no highways, no break of day
free of garments
free of pain
halcyon days of
play ...
and
grain
child of summer
child of indigo
… with fists curled in rage
and
arms sky-wide
you take the purse
and
steal the thunder
only to hold the fey inside
shhh ….
quietly
you
fill
with
a silver-moon-hope
blazing a truth-trail
thru weeds
and
rye
of storms kicked up by the boots of love-soldiers
as stories tender the fire inside
child of the stone sheep
and
child of the columbine
wearing the tilted crown
seasons roll past with tempered precision
as your bones
anchor
to holy ground
