How can this
place, this same
one spot that
carries itself
across the landscape
of extended time
and incremental
turnings of space
hold anything
like meaning and
a sense of indicated
preference.
How is it my
heart stills and
my every cell
relaxes when I
pull into the
treacherously steep
driveway of our home?
Why does the
soul shift toward
calm simply grabbing a
carved oak railing
at their home –
climbing the carpet-less
stairs that echo each
and every footfall
up the center of the
stairwell of three floors?
When did the niche
of moss covered rock,
along the waterfall of
that stream weld itself
to homeostasis;
and, give shear release
of tension gathered
under the skin and the
follicles of every strand
of hair?
The Pleiades
could better stand
a chance at answer
than I. The Ocean
could more readily
explain return.
I do not find the
wherewithal
to suppose I could
speak such
mystery and mirth.
I can lean a bit
into the bliss of locale
by learning to sense
what way the places
I inhabit leave me
to feel. It is there
I can steady my
gaze into to
chasm of the
eternal fields that
occupy each atom;
and align myself
with the
universe of all
arisings that
live in every
here –
along the axis
of all our
nows.
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