|
Being Here, Finally
I left my wings
at the foot of
the mountain,
believing I had to climb—
That's what monks do
anyway on their
way to unchained bliss or
sweet oblivion—
half of me battling
the gravity of living,
the other half
diffused in an
opal sky
where I'm the
main attraction
or invisible,
depending on my whims,
where the sun
belts out tender
screams and
sirens of silk,
where imperishable calm
always wins
and I suspect
that whatever
is hiding behind
that foaming
screen above—
gold, angels,
living rivers—
is vapor compared
to the love
we will breathe.
But what about
right here,
right now?
I can't live
on soulgates
and clouds and
hereafters.
I'm still being born
and the temporary
looks quite solid
on the average
day and it
certainly
passes for real.
The field is
sprinting with its
grassy hair on fire:
sprays of lava,
cups of mist,
fluffs of sunset . . .
Everything I need
for at least
one clear moment,
but look closer . . .
There's a star,
possibilities, actually,
in the center of this
imperfect Now.
Another Now
and another and
finally the gift of
another day.
Patricia Joan Jones
|