It's impossible
to feel nothing
in the dark
while everything
floats upward and
all your fury
and hunger
oil their way
to the surface.

Shadows gawk
and hang from
contorted elms, but
you have no patience
for their oozing
mysteries.

One prayer
and your heart opens
like a scroll
of cryptic wisdom,
and the old sages
roll out to remind you:

All is well
because love, and
all its names for God,
never left,

can never leave,

although the game looks
quite convincing from
the trenches in
the cloaked world,
and yes, it's rigged,
but look what you've won:

Could you see
the celestial dramas,
could you truly
know the light,
without the bottomless
nights?

A barn owl makes a sound
from another world.

The moon has fallen and
is everywhere in new
and old forms:

diced and gleaming
on the ink-blot pond;
wrapping trees in its
filmy peace;
luring you into the
softest sandstorm.

Yes, it's like that.

Light is no longer
just an idea
in the dark,
but, like the moon
in tatters
at your feet,
your visible truth,
your sacred and
endless Self.


Patricia Joan Jones