(FOR: M: 5.25)
I wish, sometimes, that my
under standing, seeing from
beneath, I could presume
that the path could be
straight and true — known
merely as: it’s that way.
Not this.
But I find that
it wavers, like the shimmering
this morning, when all is
like a mirage, glabrous, in the earlier
hours, silent with the exception
of excited birds, appearing:
jubilant, in the explication.
Here and now, as in heat,
the water is polished, glimmery
beneath me, in the landscape
of my viewing; the sun is
beginning its course across
the island expanse: warming
in anticipation, of revealing.
But there is a gleaming
quiver, that is like the
dizzy search of the orienteer,
finding a way that, in the
fever of wayfinding,
is struggling with momentary
quandary — in the pathless way.
What I mean, to reach to
the heart of it: the quavering
of the water, trembles up
into every thing, in studying
the momentum of the ripple.
And then: where is
the right way, as the whole path shakes?
I believe that, perhaps, there
is beauty in waywardness; that
being lost is about being found.
Finding the right, one must
explore the wrong. And
if you can, there could be
joy in this. Find fear fine.
Then stride beyond it, as the
path is tremulous; it’s the way
of all things, in the molecular
roaring, no thing is stable.
It’s all moving. It rests in how,
and in what comfort, you
look at it. Eyes wide, end.
I’d hoped that, for me —
I could find, and see — quickly,
the shortening route. But
I uncover, in now, more than
fifty times around the sun,
that the way changes like
the glimmering, ever fluent: onwards.
tsg | 6.36am | decatur