22. Sep, 2017

To the Guardian of the West

As the wind gathers from the West

In the slanting sun, and breathes its warm

Dream into the last leaves, into the sleepy bees

And twigs, and swells into the earth for the last

Time before the frost comes, I ask you: "Come."


Come, help me see the slow passage of time

In the orange-yellow moods dropping from your brush,

Make me hear the water of your azure cloak

Tap the rock fountains of the world.


Come, flow in my veins like wine bubbling forth

In daring games, dance in my body like a star

In the deep sky. Rush on my brow and cover my eyes

With your cool hand, that I may feel my way

Through the smooth blanks of the page, that

My ink may become a river of awe.


Come, envelope me in your shadow, that my fingers 

May turn to pure water and wine, that your grapes

May season my words with the blue vistas of your realm.


Come, steady my hand, as I paint the violet mountains 

At twilight, trembling on the threshold of vision and night.

Come, Gabriel, Guardian of the West,

Make me your trusted brush and pen.


Picture by courtesy of pexels.com