on Being

Evening Meadow

Oh beautiful forbidden meadow, do you recognize me? I walked past you a lifetime ago, struggling in my attempts to keep pace with myself. I’d nearly forgotten the thick blanket of smoke that coats you now, glazed onto a becoming masterpiece of biodiversity. I hear the hopper hop and see the dragon fly, knowing all too well my love was in this homeland of forgiveness. 

How did we come this far, to ban ourselves through necessity from the intimacy of our likeness to the butterfly. I have found a thousand and one reasons why I’d like to think of myself as different from the stone—only in matter, only in matter. 

I find a tangible desire in othering myself, pleasurable uniqueness found only in the most colorful of beasts. I’ll keep my differences, yet liken myself to the lilly pads and snakes chattering in the tides of the setting sun. 

Have you lost your way again, beautiful sky? I beckon to you beneath the smoke—“rain”, I call. No matter, the rains will come when the winds call. 

Secrets of a Seed

All thy secrets (universe) live well in the timeless life of a stone, as permeable and constant as the turning to sand and making of meaning. Yes, language has a soul such as those perennial seeds I planted~ ongoing they are. Abruptness can stop them from coming another year, but—somewhere else the sprouts have risen, a thousand years gone by!