in between valleys and mountains,
on paths that wind both up and down the hillside
(but ever onward--ever, ever forward)
i find myself in streams of time and wind,
each stitched with scents of pine needles
and of granite; of cement and smog.
in the knitting of time and on the fabric of wind
there is a knowledge
that these places are beyond me,
and they shape me
and the thinness of this moment, its sacred scents on textile streams,
remind me that though my weary self may yearn for death at times,
there is no greater death than life lived in this awareness
of the peace, of the pain in the world
and the soul-wrenching feeling of being a bridge.
No comments:
Post a Comment