Entombed under the weight of sleep,
it comes like a relief,
a blade of light pulled from a darkened sheath
In the midst of that jungle,
through the dense trees, a glittering El Dorado
appears through the lens
clear as a mountain stream.
From the deepest valleys
dreams nourish the source of words.
From watersheds, unconscious threads
follow cracks between rocks and the riverbed,
a silken transition
that transcribes light to the water’s edge.
The glass over this surface
scratched innumerable stories into liquid mirrors.
The illusion of today gone tomorrow,
the process words seem to follow.
Solitary thoughts with painted wings
point the way inspiration
lends light to temporal things.
Where the breeze mingles with the sky,
the imagination holds up the butterfly
seeking somewhere to land.
The sharp branches of Kiawe
do not ward off this delicate advance,
now coming into focus,
patterns of color to contrast
with the stark bark of reason.
Relenting once again
to the tumbling of events,
the breaking of waves,
the last gasp of energy
scattered like ash in an enchanted rain.
Dreams will burn brightly
through the smoke of illusion,
leaving fragments for the waking to reclaim.
yakskinpocketnotes 