2004 Fall The Golden Age

Touching so lightly to earth and branch,
Blue feathered birds sing the morning.

This crimson breast,
Light-warmed,
Full of praise for the sky.

This leaf, a wing lifting us.
Though carved in stone,
Spirit charms this stem.

Luminous flower with mystical power to heal.
A rose without thorns.

Whisper of words,
Curling like the tendrils of leaves,
Unfolding in stone stories.

The heart is a vessel of vanished things,
Memories and affections reflected forever.