Come honeyed light,
time runs through un-tongued songs
of being, now a wind symphony,
later a pulsing hum of the moon.
You feel the cycles turn, robin summer
and peacock blue become swan white, sky and river
turn to icy mint, your skin tingles.
But who am I?
If storms rip holes in clouds,
is it so that light can follow–
beating darkness like an egg
till it swirls and froths—
and you almost see it–pink, gold, azure, green–
the balance, the harmony,
but the ancient secrets are a murmur,
heard only by trees, connecting.
My poem from the Oracle.