TWO VERSIONS OF PEACE
Rochelle Holt
i.
Alone in the silence, she listens to blue smoke
with the sounds of furnace and the wind swaying oak.
Dark-dawn always is mute but haunting like a dream.
Only Stars awake to speak; sometimes, they even scream.
The shadows of mind sing, dance off pages of book.
Ghosts of buried people out of words to look.
She walks on sandy beach into water on wall;
she hears red voice of sky, a photograph of all
that is most purposeful to a barefoot dreamer
in love with palms and sea, not manmade calendar.
At 4 A.M. in morning, she reads and writes in peace.
Her soul is slow and warm, not balanced on trapeze.
ii.I will wake with new dream clinging to old body
like scent of rosetpassion and tickling memory.
In the shadow of nignt, I will listen for ghosts
climbing up and down stairs like white sails gone from boats.
I will enter the scene, shallow gold sand on wall,
as I follow footsteps, echo of island call.
In half-dark beginning, I will flap wings of robe,
circling naked limbs of trees lit by moon strobe.
I will wake bones of words, stretched sleepily on page,
as I stroke glimpse of past but never source of rage.
In chill of amber dawn I will open my mind,
preparing for brief day, part of divine design.
I will read, think and write, stirred by does
a and blackbirdsto remember humor in life that is absurd.
