The Sound of Stars

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Starry Night, Vincent Van Gogh

 

I cannot see the path ahead
steeply dark and winding.
Leaving the village, receding,
I call on the memory of day.

The Fall night breeze
climbs the history of olive trees
and rouses the dormant grapevines
to lift the hem of my skirt.

Goats ledged into rocky crevices
come to their knees for the night.
Their bells in number sound forever
like Tibetan prayers to self.

The soft roar tamed
by the ceaselessness of waves,
tells me I am near to home,
closer to sea than sky.

I am blind to the ocean
and it’s deep lighted creatures,
my vision veiled by celestial patterns,
infinite and giving above.

Sensing the morning’s indifference,
I stand in this night’s stillness,
all senses leaning,
as I fall toward the sound of stars.

 

 

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