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.
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