Dust storms

The circle closes…

Sitting in the holy smoke, I breathe
borders by letting in less and less
of world (opening them elsewhere) -

dust storms rising from past skies,
an almost black out
turning moon
into ghostly blurs, into
half hidden matter in a fast downpour of waters turning dust accretions
into newly whirling daze migrating unseen the soft peat I tread
barefooted…

still, a
wet moon rules
        matter by seas of softness
in deeply moving waves of
fire within
(wars without reflect the waves of dust
in nature – no wonder I never before
carried my own strength into world) –
she travels the storms in her vessel,
never sinking;
she calms the waves, lets the dust storms
settle in her teachings.

I find sparkling sand: the dust brought
new lines, never meant to choke;

the circle opens and a new dawn works itself in…

As I watch the sun rise,
a new world unfolds, rooting
where it could not before –
scar of wars within/without still visible,
yet poppies are already colonizing
(I remourn those that fell);
I know one day the emerging forest will flower
wildly