the healing muse

Volume 11, 2011


B.A. St. Andrews

Across the mountains
your heart sleeps.

This love that tears
my breast can find

no rest inside the mews.
I throw my heart

As if it were a hawk,
into the sky

and bid it fly to you.
Fierce and fleet

its wings beat against
this separating air

to accomplish what it
cannot understand.

Believe that it will
land harmless as a rainbow,

a wish, an autumn leaf
on your outstretched hand.

Back to Volume 11, Table of Contents

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