Pathway

 .

The power

and the moon and the bride

ducking behind snow banks.

Weather, may I have you to own,

be reborn in the dead afternoon like

a hawk that circles the windless skies?

Sleep, with all the dreams and shapes of dreams

tucked in your mind like precious stones.

I carved you out of grain. I stalked your elusive

steps, looking for you at each corner. Down I went sliding

into open houses searching for your seed, but your seed was

a balloon I could not catch and my child-grip is short, as are

my obsessive desires. Too far down

is the raging river’s floor -

I am carried off. This time I will not panic,

but sink and imagine I am growing gills.

I will relax the burning

in my mind and enjoy the end and then give in

to the continuous flow.

.

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Copyright © 2010 by Allison Grayhurst

Published in "Abramelin" , 2012