What prevents your witness of this place
but the urges of your blood
and all the drama that follows?
Here, where the sun pours liquid,
you pass by in a vision
captured by nature's dream
of fitness and the raging of genes.
In and out of that still point
you turn like dream warriors
self-reflected in your inner eye
and in the stories you tell yourselves.
But past the end of the dance
something waits, still and serene.
It is the quiet moment
when your water's been poured
but hasn't yet
run down to the sea.
There,
there is no dance,
no counterpoint,
no singing in the wires.
just a moment of freedom to commune with the sun's blessing and to witness the rise and fall of the fields of flowers. Time to see the dance and the singing as if for the first time without the urge to spill yourself.
A time to witness the children's faces
smiling new at that same beauty,
before they begin,
that you can see,
now that you are done.
The puppy at play,
the gentle wind in the grass,
the light that can shine
from an eye with love;
be it animal,
child
or man.
That sweet blessing
behind the play of forms,
that beneficent something
that embraces
all of this coming and going,
all the mystery and beauty.
Oh, Beloved,
carry my sweet Pythia away
into your light,
and, Blessed One,
whisper to her softly
how well she was loved.
gallagher
17 Jun 07
— Copyright 1965-2008 by Dennis Gallagher —