No, I don’t rush
screaming into the woods
but head for the garden. Palms
cast their shadow play on the wall.
One winged creature
against the other, a god of malaise
against a god of inspiration.
One remains still,
the other moves. And yet,
one does not outdo the other.
Each holds equal power
over my sudden presence.
I become settled, content to watch
afternoon fade into the blue expanse
of haze and mountains .There are dreams
haunting the other side.
They will enter (only)
when I’m ready to listen,
balance the hours
with sheer patience. Local villagers would say
the kind found in a woman
who hand spins cotton
into thread, the birth cord of cloth, of story
laid aside, waiting for a loom.