Some days a gentle garden; others a charnel ground.

Some days a battlefield; others a boneyard of innocence.

Some days a funerary feast in the mountains

where we toast the darkness,

then the light,

then our passage in-between.

Some days a shaded valley of torment;

others a Friendship of the Roads

tilts the heart-mind back toward Heart-Mind.

For a split second,

the heddles on the Dao’s Great Loom

begin their transfer.

In the blink of an eye,

the beat of a heart,

a gasp of delight,

a sting, a memory, a pang, a bite,

it’s possible.

It’s possible to enter the moment like a shuttle passing through.

“Finally!” we call out.

Finally, the long strand of nights-in-grief turn to nights-in-relief.

Finally, you’re standing on your own two feet.

Finally, we’ve noticed we are not chained-up stand-by-ers.

We are

part of the Great Pattern.

We are

among the Pattern-Makers.

We are

the Great Pattern itself.

We Are.

>|<

Stop to notice the clouds tomorrow when you leave your place of toiling.

Adopt their Carefree Way

of flowing

without knowing

of the direction of their going.

The same wind that blows them to the far eastern hills

is the same Force that fills your lungs

when you finally

when you finally

come back to yourself.

>|<

Release your breath as an offering

and step into the new season

with its slowly lengthening nights.

Allow the amber-light of your own silence

to conjure up a different kind of hunger.

Summer’s bounty has been turned under.

The Autumn Spirit says:

“Trade-in that pesky little identity for the greater one.”

Enter the place where all the old poets

threw-off seeking the Way for dissolving into the Way.

Therein, there is only one identity.

Therein, we walk around bobbing like corks,

bowing in remembrance,

mumbling:

Hello, my relative.

Hello, my relative.



(c) 2018 / Frank LaRue Owen (Wandering Stone Lantern) / purelandpoetry.com

sound: Clinging / from The Night You Caught Fire / Clinging / Hammock




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