In the morning,
to the deeply resonant sound of the Vedas,
they go looking for prints.
To place their fear.
But no trace can be found.
The night before,
the sound of the wolf,
made a tear in the liminal scrim.
Bringing them closer to Her.
The next day,
the foxes grainy bark, grates.
Later that night,
the local dogs sound like wolves.
The Owl is Nothing Without its Prey
At the moment of death I am yours.
Without my surrender your claws grasp only the yew.
Without me your hollow screech echoes through the snow blasted pine.
You starving, lonely, bitter huskofabird.
Where the Breath Turns
The doe lowers her head to drink at the stream,
giving only her mouth to the water.
The rest of her inhabiting the land all around.
Only sleepy humans see all of her down by the stream.
Doe and wolf already feel her in his belly.
After the death of David’s wife, nearly three years ago, poetry began to pour out. A portal opened… a spring appeared. He writes in and through nature… birds, especially black birds, are ever present. He attempts to live in this mythopoetic reality in everyday life… a daily spiritual practice.
David is a father to three children and also works as a psychotherapist and teacher.