First the storm—a black dragon’s fire-roar,
swept away on fiddler’s notes,
scattered by an owl’s wings whoosh
across a blood red moon.
Sleep brings memories of forgotten tongues
lost to when
and if I can hear them, why don’t I understand
how here above the garden, the sky sings pink,
and honeyed-light falls in a spray,
a perfect moment that cannot last–
yet still I sense the echoes.
like a laugh remembered from a dream.
My poem from the Magnetic Poetry Oracle. I have been having some vivid dreams lately. . .