There should be clear answers But there are not, There ought to be specific directions, Instructions in a manual of how to operate This vessel, In this life, But there are not, No “How to”, to be in different modes, Different states of being, In times of joy and great despair, Instead, one is left with hearsay, Lessons, from others who have traveled, Down their own paths, This wisdom shared to guide in the unknown; Herein lay the hope: There is no one right track, No one right way to traverse This path you tread, You lead; It is unpaved, Meant to be worn by this very trek, Thereby shaped by you.
A white feather, From one of my ventures, Resides on my vehicle dashboard, The air through my windows on a hot day Lifted and carried the feather In flight, As such things are meant to; Scurrying to recapture my feather, I am reminded It was never mine, It never grew from my body, And yet now I hold to it As if it were a part of me, In a way, it is, The remembrance of its coming to be with me, And the miles, Moments, Mishaps and memories I also collected with it present; The feather, Worn but white, is a symbol Of what I have been through, Carried by the wind, To always make a landing, With grace, Wherever I may descend.
Butterfly went home After their first flight; Home to cocoons And caterpillars, Who each longed to know of their possible future, But could not yet understand What air beneath one’s wings Could feel like, Each at their own time to cocoon Metamorphosis awaiting at their own pace, In their own way; Not all will get to fly For some time is much shorter But they all change, They all in the end are freed Of corporeal vessels Of various form, Even if they will never know The flight of a butterfly, They all may appreciate The diversity in their shapes And the cycle That unites them all.
Rain came, With wind blowing in the cool mist, The drops gently falling To trace the contours of the dry land Touching all in its midst; Thirst is quenched, If just for a day, With this single spring shower; Puddles collect within dimples of earth, And slowly build, Overflow, And run freely as translucent ribbons, Streams flowing, Spreading, Mixing necessary libations Of and for life.
I hear the moth tangled in the lamp And the clock’s tick tick Metronome, And I am left with stray thoughts Looking for a home, Trying to delineate Where things stand, And how we do This dance, Never giving it a name, And more interestingly, How we already simultaneously know The steps.
I anticipated a winding road For that is how my story often goes, But something tells me The next chapters Are short and sweet, But not lacking in their depth or content; On a few pages more There will be new revelations to find, Hopes becoming truths, And not just speculation Nor just wishful thinking, But manifestations of positive energy Of karmic flow spiraling out And being received, By open hands And open hearts, To then be paid forward, In this my tale, Moving swiftly, With the turning of pages Toward a happy ending.