Wolf Cubs and Gossamer

I find myself wondering
more and more
if there is a place
for souls to retreat
a haven for the confused
or the enlightened,
or somewhere in between.

I've lived more in months
than I have in years
I've found solace in the
bend of a willow tree
and the howl of a wolf cub
peace in the wafting smoke
of a scent called shaman

I've loved passionately
held a man while he cried,
afraid of both losing
and of holding on.

I've secluded myself and
my emotions, trying
to determine what love is
and if holding on is habit
or something more

How do you face a future
where the questions are strung
together like multi-colored
paper chains, strangling
in it's simplistic mockery
of the truth.

I've dreamed of Buddha,
his hands folded to Heaven
on some Tibetan peak
but he is crumbling, slivers
of his nose dance
toward the bodies below
in veneration to a
stone God whose ears
are already gone, trampled
under the feet of
those who wish him to hear.

The wolf cub cries again
and I look to Heaven searching
for something more than
gossamer clouds and dreams.


© Donna J. P. Riley 2010