O mighty, O treacherous bodies
You summon my belief in miracles,
Then destroy such juvenile faith.
O things of beauty, O conceits of being.
– Let me arrest this flirtation with regret,
this is not my memorial.
(Though I seek not to dishonor, by the pretense of ease, the imposing and haloed example here.)
Profound and improbable that
a priest/teacher, his warrior years behind him,
walking with and in awareness and
with no expectation,
is well met by an anarchist/naif made from saltwater.
Our companioned journey emboldens my steps, my willingness becomes hale.
(What words are left to write of the love an acolyte bears?
Though unimagined combinations of metaphors are yet uninvented
that might sing spirits to rally.)
He, with the noises of train whistles
and ageless patience, he with unhurried speech
spoke me no words of spite, brought no harm,
cast no judgement upon my threshold,
wishing only the best-most-highest.
At the opening of my heart (where I might for some little time indulge anguish)
I keep a map of languages, and stow the geography of all wisdom.
Of those spirits dancing around me,
in the constellation
the best advice given,
of great tales shared,
of kindred minds,
(Doubtless other aspects turn a world on her axis)
In all the evers, we’re there.
10 February 2013