Snow‑rain, banshees, the stuff between seasons;

fog rising on a frozen lake;

the gauze of the moon

borderless

behind the clouds at night;

children lying over the phone.

Life is Celtic and clean,

interlaced with illusion.

It’s a whisper‑thin plot in the Diamond Cutter’s Sutra.

It’s birds in the rain

outwaiting

in the trees.

Then thunder in 4 colors

and war in the east.

It’s children switching channels

on the hopelessness of Apache priests.

“La Vida es Sueño.”  Not a catechism.

We live in a rock, alone in the weather.

We get worn.  We get wise.

Our shadows move daily, our hearts never.

— Joseph Dionne