One day these words will be gone.
So will the hands that sculpted them
and the eyes of mind that saw them
and the pulse of heart
that beat their shapes
on the anvil of vision.
The only echo of what is found here
will be found out there
in the rain
the tide pools of dawn
a quiet, crackling fire beneath the moon
the song of the surf coming in
the lilting morning talk on the Red Line heading to town
and...the sound of your own breathing.
Listen in every place that you are.
Hear the laughter of a child
an owl at night
the comforting, domestic clank
of dishes at your morning breakfast.
Hear them as the true poetry that they are.
Then you'll realize: there has only ever been one poem.
There has only ever been one poem
and all poems are but a mirror of that one.
Then you will understand the Great Poet
whose poem is still being sung into Being each day.
Then you will understand that your life
and even your death
is a line in that poem.
from The School of Soft-Attention: Poems (Homebound Publications, 2018)
Original poem: (c) 2011 / Frank LaRue Owen / purelandpoetry.com
sound: Azimuth / Akupanga / Aglaia