another night’s work

The dusted footprints stop at the last door of the top floor of a house that has never quite forgotten me.
My REM-shadowed visits drop me there a couple times a year,
when the rains and moonlight pull each other across the sky
and piles of oak leaves reach towards home, waiting for the harvester's rake.

Each night fore this one, opening the door *there* would open the eyes, *here* ~
but tonite, the door closed behind me before I even realized i was in.

~

pan in:

three Sufis whirling around a fire suspended tween floor and ceiling;

pan left:

beneath a half closed window, the puja table has come to life -

Christ, Buddha, and Shakti murtis, washed in laughter, are bowing irreverently to each other and reveling in the ultimate 'In' joke

pan right:

holy tomes are jumping off the bookshelf, pirouetting and spitting
golden letters out across the floor

pan out:

dustpan in hand, I am sweeping up as many letters as I can before being pulled back through the door

~

and now, up, and up, and up
through the attic, and rafters, and oak and sky and moon
the letters fall like comets,
and I awake like a Joe Henry poem
with an alphabet around my head
waiting to be worked for all its worth
by a curious, hungry Muse