TO A YOUNG POET

For dragon’s teeth upon the altar
You are received
Into the great hall
Where the words of poets echo
And whisper from chamber to chamber,
Hang from the horn of a stag,
Ripple in the red pouring of wine…
They lie liquid upon the stone,
Gleam in the glance of a sword,
Hide in the curve of a gown,
And dance out into the green
Green dalliance of spring,
Stirring wild in the woods.
Let your words fall full golden
Into the body of the world,
Then tread Truthfully in the furrowed field
Until the song of the ruby in the marrow
Shall call even the stones from slumber.

--Barbara Smith Stoff

MORNING AGAIN

Rain today softly
the world is washed clean
today
a new light
waits in the mists there
in the distant trees
softly
lighting our gaze
toward All Dreaming.

--Barbara Smith Stoff

DOE TRAIL LANE

Down in the meadow
the crack of the day
is marked at meeting
by the sound of shooting,
down at the end of Doe Trail Lane.

Counting Lane by Lane
cleanly laid out...
Pinto, Polo, Possum,
house by house to the lake,
tall thin saplings fling up
their fretwork and veining,
simply ending up there
in the grey flesh of heaven,
down at the end of Doe Trail Lane.

Down in the meadow
the crack of the day
is marked at meeting
by the sound of shooting,
down at then end of Doe Trail Lane.

Being warm inside this cabin
and knowing, that come dark,
I will be able to nestle myself
with blankets, and lay me down to sleep,
I look at the stars on the covering
my mama sewed for me...
and, hearing a shot,
I look through the window.
I ask for clean release
for the hunted; for the hunter,
down at the end of Doe Trail Lane.

--Barbara Smith Stoff