Annabelle Moseley

 As my trip approaches,
sleep-patterns alter.                   
                Last night I dreamed
I sat on the back of a huge swan,  
                white the color of jasmine rice.
                Soft plumage fanned against my body
                as I clung to the long neck 
                like Leda on the back of Zeus.
                We flew together through the blue-black sky --
                and the stars were clearer, closer
                than I’ve ever observed them before.   
                I’ve never seen a shooting star,  
                I said aloud, but always wanted to.   
                Just then one fell before me, in a rush --       
                then another, and the next,           
                each a stark snowflake,      
                a mirror-ball.
                Then the sky turned still,
                and very slowly,
                the constellation of a house --
                a pointed roof, two windows and a door --
                glided before me.
I cannot say for certain why
I knew when I awakened
the feeling of feathers
pressed against flesh
would remain.
I’m still looking for the house-
somewhere near Orion, or the Pleiades.

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