
a call outside the window
from a bird in dreams
cuts through the night
and I wake early
to this solidity of things
that confuses
that eats at the music
in my head
till I am empty
in darkened rooms
inhaling the scent
of silence
Sacred and ecstatic songs not bound by any one tradition as all contemplative poems are fingers pointing to the same moon. Go to end of page for a listing of archived poems.