The coffee steam rises to form clouds of insight pressing for images left in folds from dreams lost. The wind a constant stream of voices tangled in prayers and pleas shaking the trees….dropping fruits, unripe yet full of story seeds. Hands wash the past off in hopes of finding touch. Waves curl to the shore bringing the gifts from grief’s journey. The moon hangs in her fullness casting shadows with her borrowed light. The owls hunt mice…. ancestors sleep and dream this world into being.
Shaman @ Large 