No Cumber

Who watches us

 

through the Great

Silence just beyond

 

th’eternal vesperal

light. When tired souls

lean ever into the closing

of the day with no

 

hunch about what

that day has meant

or guess toward

the meaning of

the morrow. It is

 

not I - the weary

me that has no stake

or claim to make

in giving life. It is

 

instead the I that

awakens as we lessen

tight our holding grip

on all ruin we believe

ourselves to rule.

 

The One who weaves

destiny and breath

is glad when we ourselves

put ourselves to rest,

bedding down to let

the world align itself anew

 

without so much as a

wit of our cleverness

to run it all aground. That

One rejoices in our

fading of to sleep, perchance

to dream and imagine

that we have nothing to

rule, or grumble at, no

 

cumber to build into

a mess.

Abandoned Spaces

The pieces

that are no

more

have stories

to tell.

A barn's wood fallen

and gone forever.

There are spaces

that hold no

thing; places

full of emptiness.

Dark matter is

a cornucopia of

drifted living

and delight.

A quark has 

full abandon

toward

the quasar's core;

a leaf becomes the

ground, abandoning

the tree.

What writes

these changes

invisibly

into life's

design?

When are the

decisions made

to leave a thing go;

and where?

I can still

feel the dry

and dusty dirt

between my toes

from the base

of the tree

at mom-mom's.

The twigs all

scattered around

it's base

awaiting me 

to build them

into towers

and bridges

and forts.

I can no longer

see those things;

their absent presence

and goneness has

leaned an impression

upon my me.

But,

I feel them.

Perhaps the

space between 

the stars is

feeling; the

hollow around

the heart is

memory. I 

cannot say

for sure.

I know the

space of abandoned

places

is not really

bereft and

alone;

it holds something

intuited beyond

just form.

It's emptiness 

is feeling;

it's emptiness 

is full.