In the center of what

looked like a Brazilian

agate the eye of an owl

stared back at me when

dusk turned to night and

every hour, every day.

Beside it on the shelf

the crystal blue inner core

of a celestine shined in

a stream of yellow light.

My Bohemian heart fell

in love in each I gazed 

upon them and my

mountaineering stick

lovingly carved out of

live oak, the feel of it in

my hands as I'd take it

on my trails in the warm

breath rising from my

native hills, the sun on

my smoky brown skin

as I'd make my way to

the farthest end of my

dreams, a cabin at the 

edge of a knoll; and,

some evenings I sleep

where the rivers stop,

woken in the morning to

my pretty Neva singing.