do not transform to words
Still, it lingers
for that first line
to move across your tightrope wire.
The mind, perched above an unspeakable blankness,
late summer losing its sheen,
until the rides dried up in doldrums,
until night folds in
without a room to rent,
without any light to pitch a tent,
with no station to channel the breath,
from all sides comes an irrational fear.
Peer into its depth,
declare that you’ve lost your gift,
pulling sentences from time,
an amorphous shape to define
ideas beginning as flickers,
then springing to lamplife
to permeate sleep
and create with words
the smell of dew laced with kerosene,
wet mornings camping
The tent canopy conceals
a hard, strange bed,
a precious bootless rest
above the path’s myriad experience,
dreams caress the soundless transience.
When time becomes oppressive to sleep
and the mind, like pulp,
forms fresh images for the pen to reap,
you idle, where no roads go.
Remembering every manifestation has a motion to it,
every creation has emotion to it,
every relation can have devotion,
like sand against the ocean to it.
Where shall my thoughts rest tonight?
On what downy palm sway soft breeze
invites the mist to lay before me?
What visitation to release without holding?
Precious but not controlling,
these ghosts, my close associates,
the ones I have to work with,
creatively, in collaboration
with the infinite integration
of insects and grass glades,
it’s about harmony,
those doors swinging both ways,
its about syncronicity,
about your words and my breath,
it’s a part of me and everywhere.
In every sand grain rests sunlight,
paid in myriad ways
through work that begins in the heart.