To study the multifarious strokes
of southerly wind on bronzed, oily skin,
to spend our time better, abiding
in the in-between, noting the finite
of infinite - the things right in front of our face,
we fail to notice everyday,
sitting in graying hues of black porous dirt,
bathing in the shallow orange of ageing September rays; it's
being spun like a cobwebbed earth, indiscriminately
catching all the comes its way: Today, like all the rest,
there's a mysterious twitch in the accelerating strings of time,
river smells of midafternoon spewing off
from the sputtering clouds; and a silence
in its whitish stroke, finally slowing the hasty universe down;
it's soothing, like wooden flute notes in our ears,
a calming ripple through the gravity that holds us all in place.
Get closer, and you'll see all amazing intricacies,
the earth, just shifting over slightly,
not even close to several degrees.
Harking laughter and tiny voices across the street
fill the air;
as carefree free as they are,
tomorrow isn't even a pebbled thought away.
Here, there's only a slinking string of time
and space, with crickets
fighting for the darkest deva sound; it's
in-betweens it all that there's a great...
pause - the leaves
forced upside down, the grasses
to be part of wilted vindication,
and all the birds coming back from the edge of dangerous
sleep deprivation. Yet one noise,
transcends it all: a hissing, damning calm,
saying: "It really shouldn't be that long now."
We were amazing beyond worldly definition, cosmic rivers of suffering settling as oceans of desire in pitted bellies.
It was tempting waves, an alcoholic thought of reverie calling on us, two polar opposites as tides, as separated light that blinds. We drank from each other then bathed until our souls caught fire, our consciousness momentarily becoming one.
Shirtless, we glowed; our essence: a raging silence that deafened, a home of impermanence escaping the world. We set fire to the mirage and ideas separate of ourselves.
We fell asleep on warm concrete pillows; transcending compassionate form, it was OK to say goodbye to the dream, OK to awake to the fading imperfection of the loving Yasodhara and Siddhartha we'd become.
If I squint hard enough, the snow storms outside appear as a dust-bowl in your eyes - dry and thirsty for the taking. It's a comprise, and, we'll accommodate each other in great stretch of middle ground, arms drawn for what still lies inside: My half for your half as we become whole.