Alice O. Howell

Daphne sleeps

                                                                                Sixteen

I will lay me down

and make my own horizon

          and the mantle of the sky

          will be light upon me

          and the waters of the wells of dreams

          will rise and spill lightspun streams

          through the lovely colored ribbons

          of my mind

I will pluck flowers of hope

make a bouquet of words:

holy herb, hyssop, prince's pine and balm

and weave a garland of stars for him

and I will look for him

past the meridians of night

until I find him

          he will smile at me and touch my flowers

          he will play and carry me away like a strong horse

                    and close my eyes with kisses

          he will smell of sweetgrass and bark

and no one will come

    and no one will talk

    no one ask why

and we will lie together in silence all the night

and God himself will sigh

                    Thirty-six

I will lay me down

and try to make my own horizon

          and the mantle of life

          will be heavy

          and the waters of the wells

          of dreams

          will rise and spill their torpid streams

          through the rusty injunctions

          of my mind

and I will pluck flowers of regret

necessity and rue

and weave a garland of suggestions

          but I will hound him

          past the meridians of the market

          until I find him

                    he will turn away and touch his till

                    he will find fault with the food

                    he will put himself between my thighs

                              take relief and grope

                              for the bathroom light

                    and smell of disappointment

and the children will cry

    scream and fight

and we will lie in silence all the night

and God himself will sigh

                    Eighty-six

I will lay me down

and make my last horizon

          and the mantle of years

          will be scraps

          and the waters of the wells

          of dreams

          will rise and spill starsprung streams

          through the rapid resignations

          of my mind

I will pluck memories

past the meridians of reason

and give all it ever was

to whatever there is

          and I will look for truth

          past the meadows of my life

          until I find Him

He will smile to see my flowers

He will carry me away with the wind

He will gather me to his breast

          and kiss my eyes in death

He will smell new and promised

          and those that come

              those that talk

                  or think they know why

will lie in silence all the night

and God himself will sigh.