Over the shoulders of the mountains
the wraiths and apparitions
float at first light and at dusk.
Do they come from other
Times and scenes?
Or are they messengers,
heralds of what is yet to come?
The pearlyrose and bruisedblue trails
of mist and dew enfold the peaks,
caress the valleys
with their faint music, the danse
macabre of those who know
their doom and love
their lives the more,
The hope that night
may not end nor
day begin again.
In aurora stoles and maniples
the dead and those as yet unborn
drift together praying for a chance
to live or die.
They write the book of life,
all that has been or that could be…..
But we do not want this script.
Some we have had too many of,
war and plague,
rape and pillage
If we could choose,
would we recognize that
for which we pray,
our heart’s desire, untimely death.
We recreate it
in every fire and every tale.
Mesmerized, we are enchanted
by the beguiling
eyes of dissolution,
the scent of pain and terror.
Wolves of prophecy and bears of wisdom
walk carefully in the hour
of the apparitions, the no-time
of dawn and dusk.
The time when the world is
not quite formed and anything
It is only humanity walking
the cusp of time,
Thinking that we shape the mist, secure
In our separation and endlessly
wrong about our weapons of autonomy.
Humans step heavily upon the earth,
But even we can be swallowed
In mystery, steeped
in reality star paths beyond our imaginings.
Do not fear the wolf or bear.
Fear rather the one
Who dances with golden shadows
Who seeks the power of the mists.