|Click on image for more A-Z|
Q is for Questions
I ask the world.
She answers in parables of rust
and empty branches.
She answers with the scent of fallen
leaves and the musk of earth,
turning over in a last fidget
before sleep under a white blanket.
She will dream her way back
to the dawning sun, to the place
where my skin and your skin is set
to flame. She will dream her way back
to leaf buds opening tender mouths
to early rain.
She will find me here, still asking
hollow questions that echo
through the mountain narrows.
The questions that keep piling
like leaves spent in flame.
She will answer
with a warm dancing wind that
rakes the sky's reflection
in the pond's watery eye.
She will answer with the light at dawn,
the sound of thrush and lark,
the smell of new grace.
In the fire silence of the hour,
she will answer with cirrus clouds
inked on the new opened canvas