i still see her wind blown hair
there beside the sunny water
before the world was hustle bustle
there was green grass and
golden summer halos
around our tossing heads
she said, "what if life is all a circle?"
which made me smile
because here i was
but what could i say
that life's a mystery?
she licked her lips and
suddenly i didn't care
if life's a circle or a square
what mattered was
she was there
with sky in her perfect eyes
when she looked at me
slip away
between the crashing green
where mountains rise
today's eye unseeing
dull from screens and
expectation
to meet in truth
naked before each day
before the other
to gaze at stars and
heavenly bodies
wonder-filled and
possibility heavy
walk beneath a
canopied sky of
stars and glowing flesh
creating worlds like
ancient gods
birthing with
eternal passion
fashioning limbs
and breasts
with loving clay
i will not say
their name
before i breathe
upon their lips
if i could fall
into the deepest pools
of darkest night
scattered by the
sacred lights
to see them cross your
haunting face
would i not race to
water's edge
and fall forever
with you
through the gazing tunnel
to shining
diamond-covered trees
where sacred birds
and beings dwell
i will not tell
our many-whispered secrets
or pluck the Raven's feather
by the midnight water
oh child of earth and sky
we swam in stars
along the rocky shore
and looking saw
so much more
than galaxies in
an endless sky
in our eyes
we saw possibility
remember breathless
night beneath the canopy
beneath a warm embrace
our hearts raced to
be one
we fell forever
into memory
snowflakes in the wind
never back here again
and time will lift us
higher than the sky
to soar, to die, goodbye
they're all fictions
these escapes
scraped together dictions
sustain us in the night
secretly fighting
shadowland
to live just once
upon the grassy plain
to strain against the
brightest yellow sun
ah life embodied
sweep me with your
starry eye
to soar, to die, goodbye
what you are given is not the Way
but it is your mother's or father's
a church, mosque, or synagogue's
a culture and an era
who in turn received it from another
there is no "way" but the Way
the philosopher was right to say
it cannot be named
but this is inconvenient
so we grasp our little "ways"
and perish never having
known it
except in briefly flashing
moments of illumination
time will tell
a many-chaptered story
in which characters
fade in and out
flash like fiery sparks
on a dark summer night
and those with sight will
see
but me?
oh turner of pages
rememberer of tales
i grow old
with whitened hair
wrapped against the cold
snow beating hard my
thin glass illumined by
a meagre flame
twice wrapped against
a childhood shame
whispering not
divine names to
warm an aching heart
i have my own chapters
so old..
they can't be told
