BJP Progress Report: Page Accompli!
the feather winds from the morning stars smell of lime and ginger
and stir and lift the desert floor in dusty clouds of pink and mauve
the sun rises, quickly, like a maiden from a pool, shimmering with reflections
and swiftly, swiftly these winds push us with insistence through the longest day.
the curtain falls in coppered indigo folds and a cinnamon breeze
settles us in heaps along a mountainside beneath reluctant starlight and
the world breathes out a waning energy; gravity claims us, bearing down,
preparing the landscape for dreaming, and being in dreams.
this shortest night will not be still; it swirls with stars & worlds as yet undreamt of,
and we, though seeming still, are wild alive and as we spin create the madness
and the beauty of our hearts' visions, placing them like points of light
along our ink dark journey's path, finding our way to the morning yet again.
© Morwyn 2007
In the language of the petroglyphs, the spiral tells the ones who follow that our journey continues from here.