The slope of the roof tells us about it.

The noonday sun shining down on the outer wall does too.

The hay fire in the autumn field is quite talkative about it,

and the dew-dappled pine branch

sings quatrains of cloud whispers in homage to it.

 

Two sisters take a lunch and talk about it

like old philosophers in the mountains.

Lovers in their heart-melting, leg-locked dance

among the twisting sheets call it into being.

 

Hot water.

Yes. The hot water on your face in the morning.

The bouquet of the wind blowing through the peach orchard.

The first (and last) sip of sweetened sake beneath the moon

reveals a remembered, ancient ritual dedicated to it.

 

Women gossiping in a corner -- it is there.

Brothers embracing -- it is there.

A child asking what something means -- and it is there.

 

It is present when you don't want to brave the cold

and when you finally throw back the quilted comforter

and place your feet upon the floor.

 

It is there.

It is there.

It is always here.

 

Present in our collective victories

and our personal losses.

It cannot be named.

It cannot be named.

But it is here, and it is here that we must live for it.


(c) 2018 / Frank LaRue Owen / purelandpoetry.com

sound: Ben Leinbach / The Spirit of Yoga

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