When the nights are endless Full of time and space I imagine the journey Beyond roads and geography And sometimes I almost touch a beauty that can't be seen And hear music from beyond our ears
My mind grasps for unknown stories With endings not yet imagined Meanings as yet undisclosed For when nights are endless I long for the truths that hide therein Silently and invisibly And I reach for the mysteries That defy and deny us
we bask in the glory of the sun and gaze at the beauty of the moon wondering what it would be like to be as beautiful as each component never gone, only "soon"
little do we know that we resemble them both we rise we fall sometimes never knowing if we can even get back up at all but we always do just like the sun and moon we are never gone only "soon"
If someone was looking they would see me seated at my dining room table hurriedly scribbling down words chasing a line from a dream aching and exposed and raw before it is gone forever
If someone was looking they would see a person seated in meditation taking on different postures taking on myriad forms coming back to my breath aching and exposed and raw after chasing everyone else's breaths
If someone was looking they would see my body slighter than it used to be walking on new knees with new shoes standing in line among people aching and exposed and raw vulnerable to people's piercing glances
If someone was looking they would see my life composed of husband and home cats and books aching and exposed and raw the watcher watching
If someone was looking aching and exposed and raw they would see.... ?
At sunset The sky turns in liquid gold The trees with forgotten leaves Promised, new to grow Orange pinwheel, rolls down the hills The shadows of the bark, evenly spill on the grey grained roads Shining bright and dark The twilight begins
But it is so fleeting slipping through these mortal fingers squishing up between my toes as I walk wetting my hair as the sky falls on me.
So I write thinking that maybe I can catch something by surprise pin it to this paper with my pen some fluttering gossamer wing that tells me what am I?