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.
