Soule

Bright as day they say,

bright tonight over the pines,

outshining the stars,

kissing my ears with ghost stories,

haunting each other: astral rabble

in the witching hour.

But brighter still in Winter's blanket,

shining like the Sun-- if the Sun

weren't such an ass.

But you know what I mean,

you see me

reflected in the fringes of

your speech patterns,

and I hear many thoughts in your voice.

Brighter still they say,

and peaks to summit

and dharma-bumming in the

copper mines with our eyes to the sky.

And I wonder that some brilliance

chases me from candles

in shared spaces,

while still others

make me grin and warm the pit of my stomach,

make me feel my skin's alive and pining,

and then: the Moon.

And the fire burns in the cold air,

dispelling shadows from before me

that they might stand behind.

Neibhouring cries; the strix and striga,

and I solved your puzzle

while the candles gave chase,

smiled as the pieces aligned

and the ground shook to the fire-pulse

and I--

forgot my name again.

I could remedy my riotous neck

with a simple construing of sinew,

or strike in over-eager smartness---

but what for?

I fear the fire's smothering by cold,

yet I look and find

the heart's a heavy burden

and so, so worth the weight.

I have no desire to put my eyes out,

no hairpin temptation in self-revelation.

Only a shower after four days on the road,

a rambler,

a philosopher,

the hanging moon,

and a heartbeat flash of my words upon your lips.

And all the while, your mind, it

creates another world

for all your other thoughts I am

so privileged to hear.

And I watch the fire's light

reflecting on your face,

hear the poignant sound of butter

being scraped over too much bread,

watch the waltz pass from day to night

where the fire still gives heat

and my hand searches for yours

amid the folds of a two-thousand mile bed-sheet.

I salute the Moon with a half-smile,

climb in through the window,

and spin through the night

in nebulous spirals of arrows.