"One of the things that always alerts me

that I’ve fallen in love with something

is that I don’t tell it what it is.

I don’t put it in an easy category.

I simply pay attention to it. I behold it."

--Martin Shaw, mythologist


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.

 

O, 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...

fireflies...

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 at dawn.

The small tap of a teacup coming to rest on a table at 4 a.m.

The simplest of occurrences become a switch back 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 roundtable.

Stories.

Food.

The sudden pop of pine sap in the fireplace.

Laughter.

 

Space-time is an illusion.

So is the notion of finite bodies.

It's why, whenever I see you, I ask: "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) 2018 / Frank LaRue Owen (Wandering Stone Lantern) / purelandpoetry.com

sound: Dilating Moon / Mesmer / Roy Mattson

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