… my name.

By J. K. McDowell

November 2013

 

How is it all year I have not seen your clear eyes?

Without such sights of wisdom and compassion

I am a turned ankle in the rushing madness.

 

We met a dozen years ago in October.

I was a poet wandering the thin places.

The world had already changed the month before.

 

In a hidden dimension you will encounter

The “Blue Shift.” I am snared in the physics,

Reading your twelve poems, this last day of November.

 

Emotions swing from gratitude to frustration.

I curse and bless this Mystery spiraling

Around us.  The wind has stripped the braches bear.

 

She holds you softly, leads you through the veiled

Door in the hillside.   I look away, up into

The shining night sky and say your name:  “Moon Pointer.”

 

Jim, I taught you that the Eagle is not the King

Of The Birds.  Under His wings scan and decipher those

Dark feathers.  Today you will come to my name.

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