The True Test

Could it be

the true test

of the clarity

and worth of

a soul is

the suffering it

has survived.

Its ability

to stand

while broken.

It arrives in

whatever space

it inhabits

with no fanfare

or finger pointing.

It does not

seek to rise above

on the backs of

innuendo and

accusation.

Facing into the

horror, it braces

as if its eyes were

closed and pointed

to the winds of

severe change and

relocation. It

shall not

be moved.

Feeling the

blasts of what

is named

across its cheeks

and edges

of its ears.

It finds no need

for justifying

explanation

or a trivial

varnishing of

a thing.

A gargoyle

resting its

head in its

hands.

The wave has no

need of discourse,

the sun no need

of banter.

A stone is unmoved

by insults.

Resting in

the ever-present

idleness of being,

it does not

move to grow.

Its nourishment is

in the stillness

of self.  In its

perch and

point of vantage

viewing-absorption

it is abraded by

the ripples of

suffering and woe

that have coursed

over its

“itness” and self.

An alchemy of

a solid affirmation

that everything belongs.

The dis-ingenuous-ness

of a rosy painted outcome

stands against the rawness

of reality that is true;

Job’s friends

unable to stare into

the vacuous-ness of

the universe of pain.

Perhaps it means

this; or maybe it requires

that. Reaching out for

form where formlessness

rules the day.

Suchness is crafted

from the gathered

nuclei of tears

that have run along

the dirty face of agony

and abandoned hope.

We reach these places

in the chaos of

form.

Lean into these

undoings with

acknowledged wordlessness

and rampant indefinability.

The circumscribable

is uncircumscribed.

The heavy snow

sits months on end

above the ginseng seeds

and crocus bulbs

longing to find day.

The tearing away

of melting snow

washes the soil

with the gift of growth,

carrying winter

away in rivulets

of supple freshness

and the morning song

of birds.