Thinking . . .

The moon graces

      the ripples of the water                            

with new white lace,

              crisp yet dynamic,

brilliant, and reflective

                                     of the depths of creation . . .

a song floats up                                       

            from the bottom of that

well - - -

    to quench the thirst

                               of my raw cells . . .

I drink deeply of

          cool spring waters              . . .                   

my face feels happy

        while doors

                     are

help open

and I 

        can find a way to fly

to the empty house 

            on the hill . . .                

                   shadows filter

through the trees                                          

         like moths fluttering

against the darkness . . .

                               I am the star walker and

                                                              I touch these glints of light

             as if they were stepping stones

guiding me to the places where

                                 beauty

and love

           wash the souls of the damned

and the song of eternity

reverberates 

                                                             through the throbbing heart

                     of that which is;

             and that which was

                                                        gleams like a frozen dream 

       in the empty house

              on the hill .. . .

where memories, like dusty furniture,

                              populate the stillness

   and the stars glisten

                             with laughing eyes 

through un-curtained windows . .. .