When the night took post along the skyline it waved me in with its beams like a plane handler signaling my craft’s slope. Tall, and diving like a hawk, she fluttered inside the clouds, clattering of sadness. At her emergence, the moon unwrapped its wings and stood alongside the bright symphony of wonder, a gathering ballet, elegant stars and devoted spirits pirouetting their worship across the squalling runway. I whirled within the telling shadow left by my awakening (I ’ ve flown this pattern before). I lifted her song ahead of my appearance and engaged her blazing gear with wheels inside the lines of a burnished devotion. I prayed the night beams resurrect their tender opus as a pair of hands guided me home with their slanting nod like angels touring Eden, grasping the rapturous scene, crying of truth over the rumble of my former self's hoodwinked perception. O! Let me stir her happiness with confidence and urgent need! Allow me to see the bursts of light, the beams of e
(The Weaver's Song)