You cannot listen
too deeply into the
offerings of your soul.
Any word that slips
out, any image -
light as a feather -
is tied and woven
together with the whole.
A massive cloud
settles it's coolness
into vacuum of
the rock-walled valley.
I struggle to see
through to the other side.
In the morning I awaken;
my longing desire hungers
to remember the places
I had been in my dreaming.
I call out to the shadows
I feel stirring, and the images
it seems I knew in my sleeping,
hoping they will tell me
what I can no longer know
for sure.
They will reveal
the hidden wisdom that slowly
slips through my fingers
with the falling grains of
sand in the hourglass that
marks the spiral motion
of the time of our waking.
Who was there?
What did we do?
How will I feed this
thirst I feel to put
the pieces of my
fond yearning back
into a similar proximity
or familiar connection?
I cannot find the
edges to myself in
this steamy mirror
of my morning dilemma.
A raven rises
to meet the dawn.
A trout snaps a
fly from the surface
of the stream.
A hawk snatches
a robin still in flight.
Some of this
feels familiar
like memories of
planting gardens
as a child. Some
of it is grasping
at straws learning
to trust that what
arises is connected;
what I remember is
somehow important.
We spend all our days
being stripped of the pride
that challenges us to
doubt the truth of our
own soul's longing.
Look through the
glass dimly and recognize
the clarity of a hazy mirror.
Feel for the strands
that bind you to the
eternal warp and woof.
Those threads are golden.
too deeply into the
offerings of your soul.
Any word that slips
out, any image -
light as a feather -
is tied and woven
together with the whole.
A massive cloud
settles it's coolness
into vacuum of
the rock-walled valley.
I struggle to see
through to the other side.
In the morning I awaken;
my longing desire hungers
to remember the places
I had been in my dreaming.
I call out to the shadows
I feel stirring, and the images
it seems I knew in my sleeping,
hoping they will tell me
what I can no longer know
for sure.
They will reveal
the hidden wisdom that slowly
slips through my fingers
with the falling grains of
sand in the hourglass that
marks the spiral motion
of the time of our waking.
Who was there?
What did we do?
How will I feed this
thirst I feel to put
the pieces of my
fond yearning back
into a similar proximity
or familiar connection?
I cannot find the
edges to myself in
this steamy mirror
of my morning dilemma.
A raven rises
to meet the dawn.
A trout snaps a
fly from the surface
of the stream.
A hawk snatches
a robin still in flight.
Some of this
feels familiar
like memories of
planting gardens
as a child. Some
of it is grasping
at straws learning
to trust that what
arises is connected;
what I remember is
somehow important.
We spend all our days
being stripped of the pride
that challenges us to
doubt the truth of our
own soul's longing.
Look through the
glass dimly and recognize
the clarity of a hazy mirror.
Feel for the strands
that bind you to the
eternal warp and woof.
Those threads are golden.
