The humid swell of cicadas

falls upon this soul's ears

as if friendly chatter coming from the next room.


This Layturday, a total surrender to them

for the full turning arc of the sun

with no return to the land of the waking

until a drifting beam of the moon.


Soon these dreaming companions in the pines will be gone

and nothing but thick clouds and frost will remain.

The gold crow of summer high above will fade

handing the season off to Dark Enigma again.


Somewhere in the midst of my late waking,

I hear a faint voice call up from the subterranean stone stairs --

a young inhabitant of the temple whose shape I was dreaming:


Lines on a map mean nothing, she says.

The land now isn't what it was.

From coastal plain to Quintana Roo: once a day's journey as the crow flies.

Whatever gets over-layed here with time and naming is surface chatter.

This will always be the House of the Jaguar of the Sun.

(c) 2017 / Pure Land Poetry / Frank LaRue Owen (Wandering Stone Lantern) /

To learn more about the soundscape artistry of Robert Rich, visit: ROBERT RICH