I can’t see the mountains tonight …

mist makes microcosms of us all,
turning the eyes from greater things
to the internal eternity that heaves
life,      death,     life,      death
over and over and over again.

For once, we forget our smallness
and the way the world dwarfs our hearts,
caught up in the swirling spirit-sphere
of emotions, notions from childhood that
once we too could touch the clouds because

the clouds came down to us
and without a word or wish,
we are all alone, with nothing,
nothing but
the intimate embrace of
heaven-kissing-earth

as
we be
come the
mountain.

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Dying fire turns to cinder,
as even sorrow settles in the heart,
eyes fixated on last living light,
that inner star turned to ashes,
great white winter of the soul

Soft it comes during time of harvest,
singing reaper releases her hair
as the final blow falls cold to the bone,
severing movement, it ceases to breathe,
sudden sharp pause deep down in the lungs

Like the last smoky wisp of
a heart’s desire, fading into
atmosphere, clouds from the mind
that dissipate in darkness, unveiling an
ice clear night set afire with stars.

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after living with Wales,
my adopted ‘mother’,
for two years

She has been
my mother
in the long womb ages
of the soul,

but even mothers
must be
let go

letting go does not always mean
leaving home

because sometimes the hardest thing to do is
stay with her through your darkness,
not knowing what choices lay in your hands,

and that is where I stand,
solitarily defined against the backdrop of safety,
a false hedge of protection
penetrated and
perpetrated by
the causality of growing up

growing up does not always mean
leaving home

but leaving behind your old perceptions
of dependence and desire,
as you look out the window and in one
stark and startling glance,
realize that the whole world beyond is
also your own.

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