Beyond the Clover Meadow

The grey horse from the other forest
knows that a storm can steal
breath from a sleeping mouth.
She leans into the bark of the dogwood,
her back against the wet wind. Awake.
If you want to live (which I do)
learn how to lean into the forest,
bury your face into the fallen
leaves until you are the color
of loss, until you can only
be seen close up
as the reflection on a beetle's shiny back.
In the forest the angels carry
ladders of light from cloud to cloud.
One day they will lower one
through the canopy of trees
break the grey between squalls
and you will climb. You will climb
and you will sleep.

The Secret Keeper
           
            think how long I have known these
            deep dead leaves
            without meeting you.   W.S. Merwin

She will cradle your handful of bees,
the fire ants, your lemon slices,
and the pale green luna moth.

She will hold your mouthful of marbles,
spent matches and kindling,
the sorrow jar, and a single key.
                                         
She will carry your field of dandelions,
the slice of borrowed sky, and your twisted
river in hers until you meet again.