Tuesday, April 23, 2013

The Consenting Muse

Art by Leonor Fini

The door splinters.
The wood planks sail on the horizon.

The open sky calls.
The rain tremors and falls.

Body. Breath.
Sensation. Consciousness.

Crimson petals pressed to white paper.
The fortitude to know, and to go.

Leaf. Bark. Root.
The autumn brambles, left unattended.

A harvesting of love and joy.
A gathering of stone and bone.

The tender flow of words . . . unhurried.
It’s an old story . . . the calm that comes with
Knowing . . . and going.

There is no nip inside that air.
There is no ebb inside that flow.

I talk to you in a dream.
But . . . pardon the intrusion.

I was saying . . .
May I ask . . .
To trust without shadow,
What does it take?

The heavens are boundless.
There is a use for every darkness.

Intuition. Imagination. Invention.