You can imagine it in its splendor,
for surely the full moon casts a glow
over the ruins of Kaniakapupu in the
early hours.
This emergence
from the contours of a clouded sarcophagus,
will leave no witness.
No one taking meaningless pictures
to capture or extract from its essence,
nothing to distract from a dance,
luminous as it is sudden in its disappearance.
Our temporal bodies a nonentity
to the unseen symmetry of stones
and in their reflection our own illusions unlearned.
To clear a space for illumination, for the imagination,
an axis of paths scratched out of the convolution of bamboo,
a place for the wind to gather leaves
in the striptease of season’s silence
shaken and committed to streams
and in the passage of time
sense the essence of nature
whose falls appear out of the gloom of mountains,
from under the veil of ghostly heights
too treacherous to reveal secrets to foolish climbers.
Rain, relief, sadness and acceptance,
all upon the skin of the message;
trust the process.
Light, like a torch through the canopy,
gifts a brief glance at the inner geometry,
the blurred boundary between the spirit and the living,
between stillness and motion,
receive inspiration like a transmission.
Surfaces mirror the soul,
control the discourse
over what is known of forests.
Remnants of history, partial achievement
coming into focus from out of obscurity.
Clear a space for the sacred,
somewhere to retreat
from the profanity of the city.
All the modern means of obstruction,
the flow confined to concrete,
the land mined under the guise of progress.
Under the shadow of glass,
no one seems to care that it can never last.
In a hundred years, when the forces of nature
clear another space,
what will be the state of our ruin?
the legacy of our folly?
yakskinpocketnotes 