Trisha Lord

I

Night wind woman alone in her bed whispers
to the angels: spread your wings and shelter me,
I am done with drifting – lost at sea in a
separation dream.

Night wind woman waits, standing in her garden,
for the wood and metal, glass and cloth to form
in beauty to quiet the rooms of her soul
with its mystery.

II

Morning sun, like carrots cooked in cinnamon
sliding sweetly down to pool behind my knees.
Warm sounds like Sunday sail to a spice island.
I lie in its light.

I stretch out to purchase more fully its heat,
Remembering I am forged from the same source.
In its light I feed the other part of me
hearing the grass grow.

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