Breaking The Stone

 

 

 

Breaking The Stone

 

 

When I left the forest for a wilderness

of pillars, hexed by a tinsel covenant,

the moon cried for me. Pines sparked with

white gems of her longing. Minerva's owl

called my name three times; still

I chose the thrown shadows of a fire

that burned just out of my sight.

 

Sixteen years I followed shadows,

ate them, dressed in them, became

what was cast in front of me instead of

its birthing light. Stone I owned held no fire,

only chill when my foot left its face.The

pulling promise that scorched my hand

never could be grasped.

At last like a widow's first laugh,

there came the reaping breath of what is,

carousing down columns to lift

my short hairs with the brush

of owl's wings above me,

spread wide to carry me home.

Then the orphan moon

put away her tears

and blazed in the lavender sky.

Pine-wind recited in the meter of stars,

and I was their matchstick,

Gaia's fuse for a flameless firework

filling the amaranthine wood

against the dark end.

 

In my hand

I took the gift-feather

from the owl that called my name

and with it, wand and talisman,

without any heat at all,

I broke the stone.

 

June 2022

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

a draft poem for

The Sunday Muse

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Note: This poem could use some additional work, but I am posting it in its infant form til I can find what else it needs.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Images: Owl and Pillars, author unknown, via Sunday Muse Fair Use  Image source 

Owl and Moon, ©Alan Perry, via internet Fair Use