What is this quality of life that is like fumbling in the dark,
picking up objects, asking, is this the way?
Brushing surfaces, turning logs, asking, is this the one?
But to what are you matching the world?
What lock lives inside for which you seek a key,
for which you can say, no that is not the one.
That is your mystery, that which you will never know.
That folded over map that says to you,
as you palpate rocks and stones,
no that is not the way.
Or yes! a trace!
So you face the abyss
with only a vague feeling of camaraderie
Between your skin & the texture of the rocks underfoot
Between your palette & this sweet air.
Nothing, not even a light up ahead.
On either side the forest calls,
come rest in my embrace.
Paths to faraway castles glowing from their stones
caves stretching to dark dimensions.
They pull with their infinite visibility,
Their promise of a known life,
Come here.
Or the rock ledge your foot scrapes up against.
And you imagine the exhilaration of falling
But there you will be another guest, the perpetual child, the eternal king
Wrapped in blankets, yes, warm, but half-dead
For your feet, sensations of the ground ignored,
have long forgotten how to feel.
Listen to stones
Trust the wrinkled texture of the air to lead you home.
For that felt present is your mystery,
only for you is the air so sweet
To the next traveler it may smell of dung
Only for you will this road take you home
Create its beauty with you assent
Ascend, descend, turn corners,
breathe life into this dance between,
this space between yourself and the way
That is your mystery.
You and the air, these stones, these branches,
these travelers & this darkness.
Trust them to lead you home.