Four Short Poems
dazed for days
stumbling on a vague clearing
It comes the chage time of seasons
the numbered days of in between
when soul and earth together
labor to quit old joys for new.
My soul is pressed between the sun and moon again
and the sun's rays in it's rising
shatter my vision to myriad refractions
revealing the me I've known and loved
as the me I am no more.
Lovingly, a last time,
I touch those crystal streams of being
and enter quietly the world of pain
to rise again.
Purified in the flickering furnace
My soul runs molten, liquid
Yet quickly, suddenly slips
Through my hands
Onto the floor.