When you arrived in Manoa,
damp from the rain,
there was a mist that had lowered,
a musty incense trapped in wood.
Listening for subtle instruction,
you go inward.
Everything is moved by hidden means,
heavy winds and a light that ushers in the void.
Sunset’s hot coals singed what’s left of resistance,
when clouds leave no footprints
The shrouded prisms,
the ghostly veils that trace the ridge line.
From here there’s a well defined
form of a crouching tiger
set in stone musculature.
Protective walls form a sanctuary,
a garden of feng shui,
a perfect symmetry
that comes from being cradled on all sides.
The pulse of a reclining dragon
is tempered by the tortoise,
keeping the Chi in harmony,
until the phoenix lifts it
brightly south to sea.
The Moon is now balanced
above the ancestor’s branches,
seeming to emerge from the burnt out tree.
it appears stranded,
like an emaciated heart, waning.
Prying tears from deep recesses,
surging into streams of thought
to lay on the surfaces of runoff,
playing its role in the letting go.
All that is fixed in marble is a mirage,
a disguise over the loss of control.
All the dead end illusions
form a platform
from which to peer at the unknown.
All the debt and uncertainty
of being alone
burns brilliantly from this vantage point
where the sky is a conflagration
of all that came before.