By Donna Carey
Where do elk go
with the moon so high
The season slow?
Wait for me here
at water’s edge
when trails are clear
and rivers ripple webs of fountains
unfiltered futures
beyond grassy mountains
past the hollow
Sense awakens
instincts follow
northern roads
highways of knowledge
ancient abodes
Shadows spread over
starlit lands
aspens stretch high
to heavens bands
fabric of images
spill from dreams
bulging the lines
busting the beams
solutions searching for creation
open to myriads of manifestation
Follow the sound
through corners divide
Seek out the round
where doubt has no clout
and cannot hide
You are spinning full blast
the answers inside
Hope fills crevices
cracks and scars
you are your nemesis
running amuck
a map in your hand
to understand
with a little luck
a carton of stars
Where do elk go
when the moon is high
the season is slow?
Imagine
Open your mind to a big
blue door
The ceiling is tipped
It’s now the floor
All logic unzipped
The southern cross is
now the boss
or maybe the dipper
Orient yourself
wherever you are
into fields and
landscapes afar
The sacred
migration has begun
out of the forests
into the sun