The Visit

How differently the world looks from here to there.

While in a blur of wanting, questions, uncertainties,

Through a fog of smoky incense, or
Commercial pink lustrous quality harem tent air,

She prepares for her day.

Uncertain of the outcome, or maybe only when.

She washes, puts on make-up

Looks at her reflection and is, like a woman,

Pleased, not pleased, pleased.

With a slight sense of anticipation,

Though maybe I am making that up.

For Life, absolutely needs no plan.

Needs no mirror.

For she can not see beyond the dream.

She knows suspense, anticipation.

Hurry, then slow, then hurry.

Will she step into the fire?

No, she steps into fine shoes while thinking of the heat.

Life knows the puppet’s dance

Pranced by unseen strings.

The outcome certain or uncertain, depending on who is doing the looking.

She senses the primordial entrance looming ahead,

But pretends it’s not her time.

Conscious of all the flurry, yet always the unwavering Self.

The Universe dances with the particular.

Answers dance right after the questions.

Is it a game, or merely the wind flowing through the trees?

A short visit.  Then long years.

One day, she moves to melt the lover.

Embraced in perfect union.

She surrenders, but not without one last whisper of “no”

Which falters before the lips can form it.

Blown away like a mote of dust.