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 Spirit Chimes

Summoning the Night

Under the night,
under the self-made waves
of waking dreams
the earth is invisible
and I am
counting the heartbeats
till that crystal theater, that
quasi-self, that shadow-life,
that demi-death,
that angel,
that sleep.

Destroy me again, sleep!
Blade that cuts these ever-raveling
mother of spirits, gathering the
romping souls to return them
to their chosen bodies,
night within a night,
remind me why there is a night.
The performance has ended,
crowds scatter,
worlds await:

silken walls that don't own
me, commit me to nothing,
judge nothing.
Strong as myrrh,
soft as secret love, these
lavender fields at the end
of sweat-forged rows,
where a lone bird takes a
sip of the sky,
I see in sparks, cruel
fireflies that singe the vacuum
then exhale before I think to
grasp them.

I plunge from a cliff,
never touching the earth,
passing sky after sky,
each one thinner than the last,
stars underfoot.
And behind me, is my last
thought before darkness,
and heaven somewhere between.

Patricia Joan Jones

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