An Antique Thought

An antique thought

creeps into my soul;

like an ant,

looking for food.

It climbs the clematis trellis,

where passion flowers are praying,

and listens.

It can hear music -

it is the sound the moon makes when she cries -

the sound of silence,

of a single tear...

Calm now -

calm and deep as as a woodland pool,

breathing green and Prussian blue

like the fragrance of peace -

it falls like a curtain

- like cobwebs -

every strand

a hook for hocus pocus

and shimmering dew that chimes like angels

over candles.

My soul arches

and Spirit sighs.

Where the arch angles,

dimensions open,

stars are born

and ghosts smile slow sadness

and the possibility of more.

The thought is beyond gathering -

bigger than the basket of my spirit to contain it...

I creep into it,

like an ant

looking for food.

I can hear music.