All the Unmapped Stars

Oh, we see the stars, all right,

their brittle cold mystery

 

but if you took the gentlest

of knives and pushed open

the top of my head like clay,

 

in there are all the warm constellations

one could dream of, a star nesting

in every fingertip, Polaris in each eye,

a Milky Way down my core.

 

Here are all my unmapped stars, the candles

of my small hopes, oh, and look,

there are a few of yours there too!

J. Pratt-Walter, © 2022

Dove Wings

 

                                                                           Are we in a dream that thinks we are

a forest, or are we a forest that thinks it is

a dream?  Here below the greenery

the silent dove of my being reaches one feather out

to you.  Are we people dreaming we are doves,

or are we doves dreaming we are humans?

 

J. Pratt-Walter, © 2022