In the Circle
The night is dying, the cold air
wraps around me, a heavy scarf;
I stop my wood walk in a clearing;
tall, moon-pale mushrooms circle me;
I smell, moss, soil, leaves...gingerbread.
I sit on a rain-shaped limestone rock
to rest, just for a minute, two.
I close my eyes and music begins;
horns, pipes, drums play a tune my mind
does not know but my bones remember.
Through my closed lids light, shadows move.
I let myself fall into deep sleep.
In the fey dreams that come, I dance.
In the circle, a wolf guards me.