Only a distant spring or those
that carry loss
like a noble harvest can
hear them,
and that mist is
cruel softness
until it is a gateway
for all of Heaven,
and I am told:
There's something better,
just not here.
Since when did the path
become the destination?
Even this glittering sorrow
I cannot own.
And to think all this is one
star at the bottom
of our spirit's galaxy—
how long will it take
to know every world within
new worlds,
and some beyond that?
The maples are clawing at
sprays of ground joy,
but the gold is
like our true selves,
unscathed, never touched,
just passing through,
knowing we were never meant
to settle in here
when we pitched our tents
on the border of being—
dear sublime absurdity.
* * *
Look, over here:
here is the stream I never mentioned,
though it has much to say with
a fire-spitting stammer.
Gentle parade of mirrors,
what do you see
that I cannot?
And up there, a vintage blue
that misses nothing,
and down here,
the red earth that
never forgets,
but within, spiraling endlessly,
speaking in light,
tunneling to the center
of where I began,
all I hear is:
Welcome home.
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