Your halo follows the fashion
Of bamboo, growing faster than an inked heart
On tear-stained paper.
You fear the words with heavy wing-span,
But despair has never torn at your knuckles.
You are the hoarfrosted fields: white gowns
Hiding the poverty underneath.
But you are also a butterfly,
Skimming life’s feet without storing grief
To season the summers.
While the winter birds sigh in the canopy
You remain aflame, dipping your answers
In the mute desert, like a red dawn
Fertilized by the talons of night.
Soon winter will deepen
Making the familiar unrecognizable
And you will have to walk
in the dark for a while
Until the blue valleys of dawn
Shines away the nocturnal land.
But never forget,
The lamp you were born carrying
Needs no dawn to chase away
It is the song of the interior mind
That pours through the urban vacuum.
Meadows of coasts weighing down bridges
And extinguishing cactus butterflies.
It is the tall grass of the fells
That still move to the beauty
Of your short-cut youth.
And even though the years sigh
Through your white, soft folds,
The wayside sea still pour out of you
Like a sun-drowned night.
And I think you, with your heather crown
And mussel ears, must be
The echo of a one-winged Angel
Left on a winter beach
A cold and lightless night.
I have often stood with
One foot in the warmth
Of your shy caresses
And the other in the bitter
Taste of bleeding stars.
But when the days turned
Into a whirl of icicles
Breaking upon outlawed dreams,
I lifted the other foot
And stepped into the forest
Of your love,
And the frozen trees hummed