Trail

Harmonies swim through me adjusting
Blood, flesh, breath, and the spaces in between,
Setting this whole organism to a new station
As old as protoplasm.  For a moment I think
I have died and then awakened to a fresh dream
Of stalwart ants threading a black line across
Southern sand, carrying giant crumbs, leaving
Traces of a strange intelligence for future use.

I see.  It is my story.  It is the old story
Of landing on the maker’s knee, fluttering
A bit, wriggling nervously, waiting to hear the
Invitation.  I yearn to enter the journey, marked
by ages upon ages of those who have waited for this Now.

Yawning cave and layered rock
Beckon me and still the moonrise
In a distant sky keeps the strains coming
That promise no end save in the
Beginning.

August 29, 2007

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