At the Feet of Stone Kings

I found a sky girl
dreaming grand things
at the feet of
looming, stony kings,

surrounded by birds
and clouds and swirls
of thought dancing by,
strung like pretty white pearls.

She smiled at me
with her sunshower eyes,
wild and wan
and intrinsically wise,

and patted the grass
with her wispy little hands,
as if to invite me
to her daydreamer's lands.

I sat down beside her
and waited. And waited.
And wondered if I'd hear
the thoughts I anticipated.

But the sky doesn't speak,
she only watches worlds of time
and plays them all like films
through the filter of her mind.

She looks at carved stone
and sees ancient fantasies
of faeries and phantoms
and mythic catastrophes

where all I ever saw
were rock and moss.
Rain fell by my fingers;
she wept for my loss,

for my blindness and heart
which lacked her sweet dreams,
and each dropping tear
is much more than it seems.

Each puddle in my palm
brought the world to my soul,
sent the wind through my lungs,
painted everything gold

in a rush of sky vision,
centuries spun to combine
in a vast mural of myths
and legends and lost time.

The sky girl and I,
we sat by the stone kings,
not speaking, just contemplating
on fantastic things.