from The Temple of Warm Harmony (release date: August 2019, Homebound Publications)
When did we stop hearing the songs from the inside of things?
The ones we heard at 3, 4, 6, and 9
collecting tadpoles, walking the fence line.
The ones that reached out through the haze of late morning
when the Great Mother’s warm hand
fell softly on our shoulders in the form of sunlight.
Oh, how we trusted our affinities then
and needed so much less.
We knew we were perfectly knit from some ancient flow
that wove together the light of stars
the luminous glow in a grandmother’s eyes.
Like a growing mandala of memory,
some are being guided there again
and realizing there-is-here, then-is-now.
No time has passed.
The ghostly beat of an owl wing in the middle of the night.
The smell of autumn spices simmering on a stove at dawn.
The small tap of a teacup coming to rest on a table at 4 a.m.
The simplest of occurrences
become a switchback
to a doorway of communion.
I still hear the hiss of the heater
smell its strangely-comforting sulfur tones.
The tick-tick-tick of expanding metal
as if some unseen entity were tapping out a rhythm
from long-forgotten hearth songs.
A round table.
The sudden pop of pine sap in the fireplace.
Space-time is an illusion.
So is the notion of finite bodies.
whenever I see you,
How’s your world?
…because I know
we carry infinite worlds inside of us
and in one of them
a great spinning star-flung song
is trying to wake us up again
to the Great Alliance that binds us.
(c) 2019 / Frank LaRue Owen / purelandpoetry.com