Frantic calls from behind a stolen grave

I will claim that my pulling into the mist of your spaceless, mystic earth

Is carried by a terrible cry

And pulls me, inching toward the moonscape

Of a sudden death of an old painful memory,

A gasping of star, it’s energy churning, a whirling dervish

A Machine that creates and chokes out gold,

You master my pulling,

You calm it to the gentle heart’s wave,

You are more than enough,

For yourself, you are more than a dream or a poetic line,

A masterful voice you carry,

A adept and capable Goddess of ink and quill,

I stole an empty grave and hide behind it,

Tapping out a secret language

You understood,

My frantic call we dappled along the cooling midnight sun,

And earth greenery that captured our pool like a lady in the water,

You lovely creature of the moon and swamp, the stars and sea foam,

My darling Jane,

Never doubt your true gift.