Drums Poem by June Labyzon

A yellow glare falls on
the twists of wood
wrapped around
the hard white crusts;
As the autumn beauty finally
gives in to the brighter
vibrancy of winter, new
shapes emerge.
Walking among the redwoods,
willows and high canopy trees,
I pause taking in the visible
dreams of my past.

Most of my dreams are shaped
by places like this. I carve, hammer and sculpt
them. I dream best when
I fall asleep with the gods,
or at least I like to think the
men I have fallen asleep with were gods.
Their wings took me higher into
the clean air where the color purple
hazes over the streaks of orange
and magenta fires crackling
in my head, bringing to the
surface the secret knowledge of my body.

Inhaling the cool and delicious
streaming lines of silver light,
I kneel down at the root level
and pat the tapestry of earth,
admiring the great angles of intricate
patchwork. I hand my dreams
over to the ancient ceremonial
drums, rising high above the
hill like the rhythm of runner's feet,
I grow smaller and smaller
until I become larger than
my dreams,
larger than you.