i burned off the brush pile today
the last of the fall chores
although we have had a first snow
as well as a killing frost
i wanted to wait until our woods
were not so dry, it has been a dry
summer and autumn

watching the sparks fly
i turned back to look at the house
and saw you standing at the
kitchen window i waved
but you did not see me

watching the house lit
in the dark night, warmed
by the bonfire in the chill
i felt a deep contentment
as though it would be this
small moment in time i would
wish to keep with me forever

for it is these moments
out of which a life is made
without room for regret
for regrets are useless
standing before a bonfire
on a clear, cold winter night
a life of these small moments,
and i was glad of it

I wanted to cease to think myself a mirror.
A mirror imagines it is separate the world around it:
Tries to take the place of the world it reflects.

This illusion brings a tension to ones thought
That attempts to encase ones mind in a shroud
but reality always seeps through the cracks
Threatening to break away the shell.

This is what happens, as the tension increases
Until you let it all go…

Slowly.
Fractalizing.
World fractalizes
As the tension slips away
Until consciousness no longer provides identity
-built on memories and the illusion of its future-
But finds itself as what the world imparts
-the pattern which consciousness now finds:

The atom repeats the pattern of the molecule,
Repeats the pattern of the cells,
Repeats the pattern of the leaf,
Repeats the pattern of the branch,
Repeats the pattern of the tree,
Repeats the pattern of the Earth,
Repeats the pattern of the mind.

Letting the moment design mind’s silence,
Sending its attention towards the ordered world:
Destined now to assume its rightful place.

Many people are haunted by their memories.
I think I'm haunting mine.
Broken and dark, I follow my black heart
to the scenes of so many
happy times.

I go to these empty places
and marvel at how time
can change such scenes.

I went to the place of sweet
kisses by a warm fire,
where you pulled me close
and cradled me in your arms.
Where we slept together
in an old worn-out tent.

I sat on the dirt ground,
felt the grass with my fingertips,
and thought of what we used to be.
I cradled myself and tried not to cry.

In these memories I hold
there is now a ghost of a girl,
standing in the distance
with tears in her eyes.

-M. Spear

life               broken  
        lived                  free
                   from                cages  
    
                   heart               break  
                  
                   collide             into
                              
                               silent
dreams

Firewood turned to ash before my eyes
The desert is cool
Tall Rock night
The thorn bush turns to thickets
Cold black river water
Long haired coyote
Covered in sand
Vultures circle me
Under the moon
I hear voices in my head
Y la lengua es un fuego en el mundo de maldad