At home, in your zone,
Snuggling softly simply for joy,
Minute to minute,
Day to day, in the delicate presence of being.
A strong sense of self,
Wilting forward to dip into sunlight,
Forgetting voids of helplessness,
Out of control, appearing like death.
You sit there motionless,
To soak and nourish like cucumber,
Fresh and crisp, an easy beginning,
How cold is it to start again, you wonder.
The invisible visibly haunts those rigid,
Stiff hands grope desperately,
Injuring fellow travelers,
Why are they here too, you wonder.
A tiny speck of dust,
Glinting, squinting –
Floating serenely over the black fuzz that stretches into the mind’s eye,
Coating every inch of pathway with thought and wonder.
How might one meander such uncertainty?
Surely I cannot just plant one foot in front of the other so simply?
What if cartoon crocodiles climb out of the path and engulf my light?
If there were such things I may need to hibernate.
Finally I shall follow the dancing lint,
They are odd but they are also light among a dark horizon,
Full of lies but my eyes are tainted and prone to organize,
Not like yours that glimmer with a million futures.
Seven stepping-stones reach from home,
It’s not what you think and it’s not where I left,
I’ll be fine from here, you see that tree? I know it, I know my way now.
I’ve never been here but somehow I have.