Poem 143: Holding Patterns (2)

hide bound
in the fragile sphere
of your turning inner
to outer garments
of speech,
addressing willow strengths,
waiting out the storm
in the doorway
of the inside out lock
of walking on water
as the children
push out the boat
from your farther
most shore, to bring,
on warm feet,
bright nails in the cup
of dead leaves,
holding patterns
of curled light singing
Sunday, Sunday
in the palm of your hand
clothed in fire
scattering of seeds
in and around you
falling down,
falling up
the crowned
radiant circling
repeats and divines
the earth nut browning
in its shield
and shell of darkness,
driving the dream
golden in your eyes
the whirlwind
of mosaic flowers
aglow in the pivotal
shaft, tethered the
silk rope of skin
bewitching our
passing strange
on this stairway
that invites
and escalates
the enchanted grooming
of husbands,
alas now the captive wine
treading light on
this particular earth
where in its iron envelope
sweet life burns
in the chamber of the heart
a berried seed exploding
death into a life which
for the life and death
of me, I cannot understand……..

but then it grows
as stars do when they
hesitate and turn
on the worlds breathing
at dusk, when wings open,
wings close,
and wings open again
to create this ritual fire
that shadows
our ghost dancing.