Limbo
Why do we love nature in its undecided state?
The white-pink blossoms with eyes half-closed; shrivelled and blooming all at once.
The sun drawing breath and bellowing over the land while the wind rises; its rays reaching
a vertebra of clouds in a striped sky.
Can we live this, too? Uncertain. In limbo.
Free to be unknowing.
Would not a rose smell sweeter if it had no name at all?
Whole
We spend our days filling our lives,
our lives filling our days,
forgetting that every moment is replete already.
When we are teased by the moon,
waxing gibbous or waning crescent,
we ignore the truth of its unaltered entirety.
And silence, too, the vessel which holds all sounds,
remains untouched. Perpetual.
The Spinning Man
It is July Fourth night; no fireworks.
I see a fairground, empty but for a giant crane.
A man is attached and raised to the sky.
I watch as his body peels through the darkness, illuminated from within.
He is too high for me to see clearly, yet I do.
His body starts to turn somersaults, twirling faster and faster until he is just a swirl of light beside the moon.
Then, gradually, he slows and is lowered smoothly to Earth.
As he strides away, I sense his exuberance in every step.
And I wonder, as I awaken, why I was not the subject of my own dream.
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image: shogun
