A reliable source told me that the secret was kept
in the saddle bag of a horse that galloped to where she slept
on a bed of white, curled safe against the cold; her dark hair gracing a pillow white as snow.
Step quietly into that room so as not to waken your heart
that was stirred but not shaken, that would flutter but not break,
that would look over your shoulder to the place that you started.
Breathe slowly; let your eyes adjust to the dim light within.
Find your way beside her. A willow reaches down to guide you.
Don’t let your pride deny you your prize.
For the princess of angels is waiting again
as in golden times for the dawning of men
who meant what they say and say what they mean.
The secret is kept in nights of blue and days of green.


About michaelpoetry

I was born in Labrador (Happy Valley, to be exact ... isn't that a great place to be from?)
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