*The first dream:*
This color
in the light of tombstones,
earth and dust.
This color.
Mine is the realm within my palms
and I
long for …
this color.

*The second dream:*
Below the earth
the beat of drums,
above the earth
the push and pull
of fickle hearts.
I want my soul to be a drum,
I want the beat within me,
strong as pomegranate juice,
and earth
like ashes in my mouth.
O above-heart, be still!

*The third dream:*
This color
at the tips of my fingers,
under my tongue,
under my skin,
in the center of me.
Inside my chest
a drum echoes
through my bones and through my flesh,
and it is the echo
of life.
This is not sleep.
This is no dream. This
is death?

*This forth dream:*
The above-heart
speaks the tongue of fullmoon-wolves.
The above-heart says I want
my anger to be felt because I
am proud!
The above-heart
rattles its own cage.
Below, I excavate,
extract, rebuild that which had to break
beneath the weight.
I am the remover of yokes.
I am the strong-handed mistress of shades.

*The waking:*
I can calm the above-heart.
I can calm all
that fits into my palms
and my palms are the width of dreams,
suspended between sleep and
neverwaking.
From above to below
the beat
is always within me;
shush, you can hear it too.
Be still, black-clothes-quiet;
listen.

[Alexandra Seidel probably caught the myth and fairy tale bug while she was out in the woods one midsummer day. Meanwhile, the disease has turned her into a Rhysling-nominated poet, a writer, and an editor. Her first collection of stories and poems, All Our Dark Lovers, is from Morrigan Books. Other work may be found in Mythic Delirium, Goblin Fruit, Stone Telling, and elsewhere. You can follow her on Twitter (@Alexa_Seidel) or read her blog.]