The night is never really quiet,  
You hear the breeze even
as it shifts all around you.
It is the memory of the day
recalling all that has happened,
Nothing stirs. Memory ebbs.
No shuffling of feet, no voices
talking without speaking.
No traffic rushing up
and down the streets,
among the palm trees.

Absence keeps us alert,
with only certain things to hear,
The movement of the trees,
a slight tug of the waves
of thought, breaking on
the shore, only heard in silence.

In an open field under the waning moon,
Your lungs inflate as they form themselves
A body, gossamer and golden skinned,
Weaving in and out of the tapestry of the evening sky.  

On the ground, under their golden light.
I see it float along the horizon.
In my beating heart, I felt light
As my lifting thoughts become a brilliant body
If only for a moment,
As it dances a midnight waltz among
The company of the paper stars.

The moon leaks through the tree-blinds as
Your body waits to be claimed,
Laid among the dead narra trees, in the night,
Solemn cries are heard; your flesh becomes one
with the earth, as the wet soil shaped like cradles covers you.

In the trembling rows of the village, behind locked doors.
A mother is holding her stomach, waiting for the release.
In the womb, you sense life beating.
They seem so far away.

Paper Lanterns

Your twin roots inflate and detach
as they form themselves, Arms
of golden battered skin, your bamboo hollows
Sway as the sun-split winds blow through you.

When you breathe, your heart is light too
and small, as if swallowed and held
between fluorescent sheets,
rocking on the cradle of the wind.

Up, up in the wandering, burning blue
Slipping away the earthen bonds, you rise.
And, with silent lifting thoughts, you withdraw
into the sanctity of space.