How the Age of Iron Turned to Gold

My death makes her way to me
carrying green leaves.

I hear my prayer coming
behind illness, romantic noise,

urgent telephone messages,
alchemical lab results,

like a brook weaving
through thicket.

Water knows the way,
it isn't lost.

My teacher comes to me
by the western gates,

her eyes gone violet
as the peal of a bell

as she bends to gather
all her tender puppies by the neck.

Copyright © 2003 Patrick Donnelly All rights reserved
from The Charge
Ausable Press
Reprinted by Verse Daily® with permission