Moss on Birch

Mustangs are galloping, waterfalls of knees
Pages are ruffling, they dance in the breeze
An old shattered mirror, a symphony of glass
The hum of a bluesman on an old phonograph
A woman in heels with the eyes of a knife
Wearing a dress of dust and starlight
She opens a door that is swirling and cold
As a dozen dead winds breathe in her soul
Hickory is snapping underneath the weight
Of ten carved commandments on uneven slate

Skylarks and madmen are strange company
For rebels and renegades estranged from the sea
Tapestries of freedom and empty black pans
Are sizzling in harmony between the sun’s hands
Radios are crackling, and the ancients still sway
Beneath the miasma of death’s silver ray
Beads of longevity drip on the floorboards
Illuminated swordsmen duel on the shores
Thickets of thorns entrap the old hares
Iron vested angels corrupt heaven’s stairs

Lovers are twisting inside verdant ponds
Politicians bark as their dogs merely yawn
Vines and swamp gasses burn in the dawn
Ladders are lifted to damsels in bond
Umber-hued children discuss their escape
Autumn sits silent in summer’s embrace
Hunters recoil at the early grey dew
Fog veils the poet and gypsy from view
I sit on a tree stump, collecting white frost
In history, antiquity, and Avalon, I’m lost