In the shapeless castle of
quiet,
the Earth's native tongue,
solitude is the great illusion
that the November-glazed
pines know well—
stirring my personal
sky above
and embraced in the truth
of each other
below

like the mandala
we are made of,
unseen and disbelieved,
though pulsing with
soul light
and billions of lives:

every self
mirrored in myself.

Today is one of those legends:
tiny pastures of moss,
precision-cut holly,
life crouched in acorns,
oaks that lived fast and
voluptuous all summer
and now sleep as smoke—

just another fevered sleep,
this dense illusion,
this solid mist,
this conniving world
we search in, search always,
when it's all right here,

Now,

waiting like the bones
of sassafras
that will seduce again
with amber perfume
and a taste like secret love . . .

waiting for us to part
the curtain early
in the Spring of our dreamtime,
in this comedy of chaos,
in this microscopic space
between birth
and everlasting,
right here.
Like this:

Free . . .

In unquestioning Oneness
we can finally breathe that air,
when there's nothing left
but knowing,
nothing left but God—
the universe within—
when Love,
the only thing that ever was,
finds itself again.


Patricia Joan Jones