The hoax is that we
think we are holding it
all together.
There is a force larger
and smaller than who
we are able to know
ourselves to be
that
actually
is responsible for the
falling together
and apart of everything
that does.
It is a tumbling of quarks
in the deep space of the
invisible conundrum we
think we understand.
A position just inside
the ineffable yearning,
a bit to the left
of the un-circumscribable
tenacity and whimsy
of the ONE.
That force is really
all there is. We sometimes
catch a glimpse of a thing
we believe to be
I.
That one simple
yet drastic illusion builds
ample speed and momentum in
the short run cavalcade of
days we suspect to be
our life. It consumes
the whole of what we suppose
we know to be this very life
we allege ourselves to
be living.
Decades hence we look back to
find that the writer of it all
was suspiciously
absent.
Deep in the bag
we dragged far away
and behind us
were the tiny clues that
the pieces we selected
to be ourselves
were out of sorts with the
writer of the whole.
The crackle in the fire
was only from one side
of the burning log.
The chirping in the tree
was only one grackle
among the hundreds
that suddenly arrived
out of no where -
all at once –
in the twinkling of an eye.
How are we to know ourselves
without the vantage point of
time.
In the brush stroke that
paints the cosmos we see a
motion beyond the present.
In both directions our lives
are painted as a piece of
a larger still life that is
endless in its unfurling
entity and grace. There is
not simply one or two
dimensions to the quatrain
of our days. There is a depth
attributed to ambiance and
intuition that is nothing less
than molecules of spirit and
supposition that are as solid
as jasper, and quartz, and granite;
and yet as wispy as spider’s web
in a gale of the Creative Father’s
breathing.
There is a senseless seam along
everything that is that will only
reveal itself when one stops
trying so hard to hold
the disparate pieces of the fabric
together.
Step back and let go
of the way you hope to see it end.
Those tattered edges you
thought so ruined
and incomplete
reveal a mass of intricate
maneuvering and emotion
just beyond the thinning
threads.
But,
to see that you must look through.
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