The pines shake off the
doubts of night and each
one is a mountain,
immovable as all our
tomorrows,
and that's only part
of it . . .

larks and finches
slice the paper wind with
a silver replica
of what rises within
and then
it happens:
I'm home again in a
fellowship of winged sages,
far too knowing for this
worn-out seeker,
this frazzled wanderer
in their multifaceted song.

You see it too,
don't you, magnificent
traveler in the
forgotten wisdom:

how the sun worships it all
and the Earth calls back
with reflected praise.

Light from Light.
We are That.

Such exotic, irrational joy—
I could live a few lifetimes
inside this sacred stupor

then burrow down to
the quantum beginning
of things and
there it is:

The Heart that invented
the cosmic puzzle of you,
that shows you your entirety
in every arrangement of light—
both seen and undiscovered—
that counts every tear
as it counts every
particle and
every world behind
every world,

that knows you because
you are That,
never-ending and
complete.


Patricia Joan Jones