Of green delight across crumbling taupe canvases of stretched reason,
Unafraid to lick the snowy drifts of understanding prostrated across wisdom's polished crests,
A dangerous seventh wind of that mountain top
Also inhabits the same body that swims delirious through the landscape of sleep.
As the soul strokes a coin reflecting the aching light of love,
Nine centuries grow pink in the rising and setting sun of samsara.
Reflected in the wet pebbles on a beach of memory,
I stumble over the soft spoken promises of a long forgotten friend, a trembling petal entrapped by an invisible current.
A new season steps barefoot into the mossy carpet of eternity
Obediently displacing previous instances' murmurs into the intoxicating wash of time.
The suite of worship, radiantly languid as it patiently trickles through porous faith,
Beckons, standing in the foyer of yesterday,
Rendering ghost and flesh as elaborately indiscernible as rain and river cupped in the same vessel.
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