The wind blows hair
Across my face
as I walk the country road
And in its trace
There is no self
But that self which I have known
Since wind first
sent those strands
To dance across
The the blank screen of my mind
And set some delimiter
Of space and time
In vastness undefined.
The who that sees
This dance
Is neither young nor old.
This who has no containment,
No set of aching bones
No heavy worries,
No sorrows in a storm
No glances set askance
To see some form
That blocks the light–as solid
As the stones
It seems to be the light itself
That witnesses this flight.
This luminescence shining
From the flowers in the field
Has nothing it must yield
To learned impossibilities
Or sticky sensibilities
The who this is
That fills with soft delight
Is all there is.
I’ve known it since a child.
The other who with edges tight
Has vanished
And will only come to take a seat
When once again demanded
by love and life’s
most irresistible commandments
Before fading
into night.
