My Lips to God/dess's Ears
Category: Eve Moore
My Lips to God/dess's Ears
It could be glass,
It could be fire,
this crushed
mountain I find
my soles grasping
as I wend wayless
this way
whose brambles,
fecund, densely twined,
would slow my progress
should I hew to the
imposing, its
shadow on
the shine.
Instead a magical
machete appears
in my left hand, my
right hand, though
I was trained
to think
it not,
made of
a quadrillion
sparkling suns,
bidding me
onward.
A wee black
and white butterfly,
nearly invisible,
appears before
me, flittering
my focus.
We are given the keys
to this kingdom with
manifold doors to
pry at each and
every turn.
Listen.
The wood thrush
sends its sonorous
spell onto the green
ethers, other worlds
blooming on her
sylvan song.
Look.
A lady slipper
orchard keeps watch,
time, under the rafter
of dappling light
tuned to these
wood’s winds
borne of the
heavens.
We are gifted
the means
to arrive
here,
ever lost
to being found.
And our breath asks:
how then, where then,
shall I go?
The multiverse
answers:
this
is why
you are
here.
To yield this.
To know this.
And all that
comprises.
Hear the
wood thrush.
Trust her ineffable
siren — calling,
calling...
The destination
maddening our
kind’s wandering,
occupying its crosshairs,
its pilgrim’s progressing,
has long ago been
arrived at, with
each, every
footfalling.
There is
no wrong
turn, says
the cloud
passing
by.
Yield.
Yield.
Loose the
coils twined
before and all
around, it
whispers.
See day
become night
become day,
anon.
Find yin receiving
yang, birthing
concord out
of discord —
as a luna moth
rouses the
settle of
night.
Confluence.
Convergence.
A new full
that will not tear
itself apart.
Move
like it.
For here
there is no
against.
Here is a
stillness that
flows, as ever,
heart beating,
blood flowing,
cells happening,
ceasing, atoms
becoming
life on
earth.
Stream.
Like
her.
Course
and make
sanctuary
for vastness
teeming
that would not be
were it not for your current,
your undercurrents,
your gaze, your
presence
here.
A place
that is always
right where
we are.
All
is.
And the holy
wheel turns.
And ever
unfolds
as ever.
A map
as ancient
as air.
And I supplicate
the summer
breeze.
A petal
falls into
the soft hold
of the brook;
lighting down,
downstream,
it whispers:
bygones,
bygones.
*
[ Happy, holy, healthy solstice, one and all! ]
© 2020 by Eve Moore.
© Photo: Arnold Edwards
Eve Moore: Once a professional writer of advertising, I saw the light & it has shown me words of a different nature. And so I take them down & offer them up. And all is well.
“When the power of love overcomes the love of power, the world will know peace.”
—Jimi Hendrix
This poem was submitted exclusively to CrystalWind.ca by Eve Moore.
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