Will you look at me, in that certain way,
As if to say,
There is nothing that you cannot be
because you are a part of me.
And that part of me that knows this to be true,
I know, and don’t, and don’t, and know again…
To the Warbler pecking by my feet
I find it easier to explain
“If I seem a Cynic it is only due
To having been a rank Romantic, just like you.”
The Warbler is surprisingly soulful in reply.
“Cynics are Romantics,
Who found it all too hard to bear.
Stay here, with us, we who are beyond the Care.”
The Silence here is paper thin.
I etch and erase the lines of thought
Tracing new lines
Around that Noble cloud, though none can still its passing.
Subsuming to forces that care nothing for syntax or meter.
And then, by inevitable accident, words punch through the other side.
And even the most valiant cloud can’t hold together.
I wonder how you managed
Presses deep into the wounds.
Arguing with faith and Warblers,
But always one frail finger probing, poking at the possible….deepening the Opening.
It is not the Silence but that finger
That keeps me from descending now.
The Wound so open it opens to a space wider than I can contain.
Ready to Un-know. To unravel all my journeys
And have them begin again. On the spot.
Beyond doubt or faith.
On the mountain top, when I can struggle up to it.
I know only one thing.
That this love was always part of me.
Where can it possibly go?
Into that cloud dissolving in the very act of being seen on that far horizon
Falling to reflection on forested lakes,
Give me the mountains
I would rather deceive myself with this rarified air
Than any deceit I can win
There is solace in this place.
Where Sorrow can stretch out
naked and unexplained.
Without the self-consciousness of Company.
It is time to descend but still I linger….
Breathing in the next untaken step, like it’s my last or first.
Like a tender stage in Evolution.
The air here is too pure for me to inhale for long.
And the Valley calls with its homely lights and hearthside chatter.
The Step is taken
But only my body moves.