Dawn-Dyanna Dhyanna

Words have Wings
Words are birds
     of feather; they
     tether together
by mutual attraction
     and chemical reaction.
             
Flocks invent sentences,
     each with scent essences; 
     sweet scents source resonance, 
while scent tenseness makes menace.
Communication murmurations
     may summon the sun,
or feast like buzzards 
     on rot and division.
Your speech far-reaches;
it teaches and preaches.
    Shapes your senses 
and sharpens intenseness; your
     verbs may hurl vipers or virtues.       
             
Braid your strands of syntax 
     to sympathize synapses,
harness harmonies charmingly …
Offer soothing words like lemon curds.

Midwinter in the Forest
solstice rain rouses sleepy earth 
     from winter dreams --
forest floor pores sodden,
     oozing droplets 
          slipping into streams;
stubbly sedge stretches lazily 
    into hazy sky 
         
as mute sun filters 
     through stirring sugar pines --
sparking shimmer in stunted shoots, 
    singed by the death of winter;
our wakening world 
    lit in the glitter dazzle 
of a thousand silver sequins.


Sit Silent 
Sit silent.
Sneak between fleshy folds 
of this murky night 
and fasten your listening     
to the beat of your breath.
Sit still  
with your broken confidence.
As a wolf with a blistered paw, 
      you rock him in your lap 
until he dozes and snores away his ills.
Allow the death of silence 
to devour your devils; rip into
their muscles with eager fangs, 
a grand demolition 
with teeth and jaws; lip-smacking gusto 
and grease at the corners of a glutted grin. 
Ravaged, your innards gouged out 
like a rotting squash, relieved
of all that was not forged
from your bones or blood.
You rise, lock eyes
with the pale light 
     of a new moon.