This sunrise is not a
dream I woke up in,
but it should be. It's
too brazen for
this world:

just a few trickles of
branches between me
and a blistering-red
Otherworld;
just one thought
between the land
of pretending and
the place
where it all
began,

and look,
the wild orchids
have returned to finish
their lecture on trust—
they never doubted
though the spikes and
chains of winter.

So where were we,
little folds of
intelligent linen,
new arrivals from
the furnace
of creation?

Tell me more about
the birth
we've forgotten.

Just consider this:
What if the Source of
all love cherishes
us because we are
Itself
and form is
irrelevant? I mean,
what if it's
that simple and we
don't have to prove
anything any more than
the fine-woven blooms
have to convince
God of their worth?

Ruffled waters
give a voice to peace
and suddenly
I'm in a crowd of questions
I don't need answers to,
at least not now.

The sky immerses the lake;
the lake, the sky
and the effortless ferns
and the old trees as well.

In acceptance,
all is one.


Patricia Joan Jones