Between the Aether and the Mud

We live

somewhere 

between the aether

and the mud.

Dwelling on the

dirt of the lives

we inhabit,

abiding as a “we”

in the shelters of 

our being.

The simple and glorious

transcendence 

of the molecules 

we learn to call

thought or feeling; and

sometimes even desire,

haunt us with 

meanings

we are not always

given to understand.

And yet, 

we persist

in the mysterium tremendum

as waifs looking for porridge

each and every day. 

Something small

for our bowls;

a tiny morsel for

which we beg.

Angels 

bound to carcasses 

with a call to 

wonder and awe.  

And, in all the

fanfare of quarks and quasars

as they perform their

murmurations all about us,

we are given

small moments of pause

in which we can -

as we close our

eyes - drink in the

clambering vastness of

the Yosemite Valley 

or the damp loamy humus 

of Great Redwood Sequoias

or the sidewinding curves

of the Delaware River.

Only sight,

only smell;

leave the understanding

for another day.

For today, just leave room

for your center to hold all

it consumes in stillness

and repose;

chewing on it slowly, 

so as not to choke 

on the grandeur.

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.

How Can This Place

How can this

place, this same

one spot that

carries itself

across the landscape

of extended time

and incremental

turnings of space

hold anything

like meaning and

a sense of indicated

preference.

How is it my

heart stills and

my every cell

relaxes when I

pull into the

treacherously steep

driveway of our home?

Why does the

soul shift toward

calm simply grabbing a

carved oak railing

at their home –

climbing the carpet-less

stairs that echo each

and every footfall

up the center of the

stairwell of three floors?

When did the niche

of moss covered rock,

along the waterfall of

that stream weld itself

to homeostasis;

and, give shear release

of tension gathered

under the skin and the

follicles of every strand

of hair?

The Pleiades

could better stand

a chance at answer

than I. The Ocean

could more readily

explain return.

I do not find the

wherewithal

to suppose I could

speak such

mystery and mirth.

I can lean a bit

into the bliss of locale

by learning to sense

what way the places

I inhabit leave me

to feel. It is there

I can steady my

gaze into to

chasm of the

eternal fields that

occupy each atom;

and align myself

with the

universe of all

arisings that

live in every

here –

along the axis

of all our

nows.