Our messages,
all of them past and present,
but an ensemble of One beckoning source.
It is true,
how wind – the pen,
and water – the scroll,
will lay a volatile couplet,
a brief fragrance,
a ripple, a wave and tide.
When the wind dies,
what?
The mountain on your chest
is just the summit of the heart.
our whole lives we talk and write and chat
and listen and question…
chatter…
yet it’s all divine expelling
of a single existence.
We think we chat in multitudes,
but it is merely God
dancing on our tongues and fingertips.
And these things we write and say
are so tenuous, fragile, fleeting –
like the wind laying a ripple on the water…
it could be a ripple, a wave or the entire tide…
it matters not…
because without the Wind (the one steady thing),
there is no mark or sound left to see, read, or smell.
That huge burden of mind-speak
that mounts on top of us,
this mountain of sorrows,
piles of vain-glory…
are nothing but the summit our hearts must mount.
