The Turning Ground isn't a place.
It is a moment.
Though your lifetime~daytime charlatan dance has kept you showing up,
the heart-mind knows when you're in new terrain.
And the seeking?
The seeking falls away because you know 'it' can't be found.
Credentials, accolades; meaningless smoke to the True Person of No Rank.
Anchors of the past - no more weight.
Present-day tendrils no longer weave you in to this mortal coil.
You've even off-loaded what once resembled "future dreams."
Though the long running thread of filial piety keeps you close to the village for now,
observing your practice of hashmarking your days and nights behind the courtyard wall,
you know the time is coming when,
once and for all,
you will step across that invisible line and don the Wandering Steam Body.
It's the one that becomes part of the jungle.
It's the one that becomes more elemental than human.
It's the one that lets the Woven-In Life
slough off the bodily form like an old robe.
It's the one that surrenders to decades of anonymity and discovery
and decides to live, breathe, and walk the poems rather than write them.
(c) 2018 Frank LaRue Owen (Wandering Stone Lantern) purelandpoetry.com