Monday, July 2, 2012

Poem 3

I have seen the deaths
of those I hold dearest
unfold the mist from my eyes,
like the cleansing sunlight of dawn.
What's left? Heartbeat,
an inhale... the screeching of 1,000 wild boars,
an exhale... deafening silence,
an inhale... the mist curling back
through a forest of firs,
beneath the mountain,
and into the Source; the spring
and its whispering trickle.
Count, on the inhale,
the rows and rows of images,
each a gateway
to a memory
of being held
in the gaze of the Beloved morning light.

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