willing tones

willing tones

i have been in small grey cabins
(deep in the dark maine night)
surrounded by the rush of breathing pines, where the sounds of inner sight
flowed out on shafts of glowing kerosene light, to touch
the ground, the sleeping woods
with worlds of other times:
deep in some turkish cafe, or among the temples
where mayan magicians met the day
Gods with mighty chants, and humble melodies

where we pulsed, throbbing as one heart,
all part of one night's song
spun along on chartless tunes,
artless moon-music; gales of rough weather,
bursts of shameless soul-light,
quiet hollows in caves of sight
less life; humming together, one moment,
one life, caught, on one night, as we sit beneath
the great tree, and raise our voices,
high.