It wants to climb a golden thread,
From under waves and layered soil.
To have the strength of the sun.
To speak from no less than being.
To be a silent reflection of the openness.
Favorites for my brothers and sisters:
Mantras, rituals, cushions, cunning, questions.
Dancing, silence, singing, service, journeys
What goes on there? The wandering continues.
For this life allows no supplication to higher orders.
Perhaps a little humming on a cushion with a book.
Allowances for multi-tasking in the spiritual quest.
Or, just notice the constant serving light.
Seemingly tied to life by eyes, touch, thoughts.
Is the heart not open? Work on that, will you?
Is the body too dull to know itself?
Only a mind would stand and wait for life to be complete.
Despot! Is the waiting in vain?
The rest of the senses have jobs to do.
Even so, is there one less drop of life in this story
if the heart is only ajar?
Is it vain to wait for fullness, while living a life of privilege?
These are all ink for the pen.
Something can come along and bring the pen to a stop.
Or not, and words flow again.
The best I can do is listen to these inner poems.
See if they cover the seeker with the knowing mantle.
No outright prayers, acceptance, or high counsel.
Is it greedy to draw breath in the middle of windstorm?
No more than to want freedom from a gilded cage.
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