The Rising

The heat of day

is held within her

embrace, and slowly

she let's it go.  Slowly

she gives it rise.

The rising is full

with the aroma of the

moistening and decaying 

of the fallen leaves 

of last autumn.

Hints of mushrooms and

fungus mingle with the 

dampness held close to

the stumps by mosses and

lichen alike.  Gently, ever so 

gently there wafts a finish

of the ambient strains of

humus which find themselves

as notes and mere suggestions

to nose of other things that

are going on in the falling

apart of life in the basement

and on the ground floor 

of this patch of woodlands 

between the river and the 

promontory of quartzite rock 

that rises itself above in this

place.  Rising.  Always rising

up.  As if an offering to the

sky.  Everything rises.  Seeking

convergence and a blending

with every other thing.  It

goes on and on in endless

strains, throughout all time

and upon all space.  Rising.

Let go into the rising. Be 

a suggestion on the odor

of eternity; an almost

imperceptible bouquet in

the scent laid down of 

all that has been and is 

becoming.  To be a whiff and

tang on the fragrance of

all that is; how could we

not wish and long to swim

toward the sky with such

glory.  A balmy, spicy incense;

a redolence of the ALL.