My silly mind is telling me it can describe in words the mystery pulsing inside of me. Where did I go wrong, thinking I could do such things? As if my intellect could steer clouds from out of the clear blue sky. As if a magic formula for love exists on store shelves and might be purchased for a small price.
The morning sitting in silence as dawn expands into full light, I get a glimpse of what I am really like. I get that now and then, but mostly when dwelling in now, and when the inward words have become silenced and the still glow of sensation radiates outward through my skin, as if a thousand tiny wooden doors have opened to outward facing thresholds.
This day after the long heavy one of rain, I see the ground spilling out water that is running down hillsides and into muddy creeks that find their formulated path to the sea. The winters have been so long and dry that I have forgotten how life-giving they can become. When the season seems like one of death, much hidden energy is building under the skin of the earth.
Perhaps some of that is in me. I feel my relation to the raw surfaces I stand and walk on. A tree with loosened roots sways over the rock and mud, grass and hill. No sense in looking toward tomorrow. Tomorrow will be the same bounded experience, only a different mood or feeling inside; so easy to dismiss what is anyhow fleeting in the first place, and settle for what is always better and lives without being spoken.