In the heart of night, when the moon is pale and round, when the crickets chatter is consistent and the owl hoots occasionally, In the depth of the darkness, when the spring is running cold, alive, and clear, he sits on his old wooden chair deep in concentration with his deft hands. He makes a pair of moccasins. The little room smells of tarragon and leather and when he lifts his head to sip his tea, he sees the big round moon with the shining stars. A candle burns steadily on the windowsill and his eyes go from the moon to the moccasins. Two big dark blue shining stars one on each, and his work is done. The stars are your dream Auta, walk your dream in your dreams. She feels the wet fresh soft and harsh earth under her feet. The cold and the ache run through her veins like an unwritten poem. She opens the old wooden door and when she steps in the room, she brings the smell of apples and rain. He gets up wordless and she sits on the wooden chair as following a strong unknowing force. He kneels and puts the moccasins on her feet. With his sad dark curls and her thumping calm heart. they are both noble and unreachable. They are just for her. She walks into the open, the stars shine the same as the stars in the sky. Auta runs to the depth of mystery She is not coming back. He knows this, sips his tea, listens to the crickets, owl, and the spring, wipes his tears, puts his working tired hands on his noble face and sees the poem of Auta. Auta who runs with her dreams in her dream and Auta who knew all the unwritten poems that were carried by the wind just like her.
Hydeh Aubon (2/1/07)
