Burrowed into the emerald hills
I have found the ghosts of waves resonant
in every whistle of the reflection—
it lay beneath a stream dark as indigo.
I found the horse that would carry me back
across grey scale and falling sand
hoary as the one that held its hours
as a cloud its gift of rain.
There we rode across the moon
under baths of silver light youth made
sparkle in that distant sky, eternal
save for the need to breathe, and live, and love—
It touched my palms, this dream of mine
without cause or grace or end to mystery;
yet it fell, as perfection always does
until the next promise of a nightly love.