Burning Like Red Flowers

I laid down

that evening

in the twilight

sinking downward

and down

dreaming for

a few hours

as if I were in my bed.

But the roof was gone

and the house was too,

and I was sleeping

in the desert canyon,

childlike, in the oldest room.

I dreamt I must have been

the quiet fox that circled around,

I must have been

the moon

full and wet

weeping down,

I must have been

the prayers carried

on the back of fire smoke.

And in the morning,

amused and laughing,

in my body,

thirsty and breathing,

I awoke.

This is the morning

after I learned how to cut the thread

between forms

and let it all unravel

along the Western ridge of the world.

This is the morning I found myself

sitting up

in my shallow hole of dirt,

burning like red flowers,

This is the home of my own Truth.

There is no house

like the house of flowers.