Wave the hand of consciousness
to reveal what lies beneath the mist of thinking.
That realm of obscurity,
where faith is a wick;
knowledge, its wax; and the Beloved,
the igniting breath.
We read the words and seek their meaning,
like waist deep anglers on silent morning ponds,
hawks orbit high above the prairie floor.
They see the meaning beneath the water’s surface,
slender secrets hiding in grass blades.
Those who see, see.
Awaiting this. With each trudging thought,
the moment was released gently to the wind
and softly on the farthest forming wave.
And every dawn thereafter he patiently waits
for the return, never knowing
which of the endless waves might deliver.
And each day at dusk
she waits serenely for arrival
in the rustling of the forest canopy
not knowing that somewhere
in the verdant everywhere,
could be this one
silent
leaf.
