Nights on Spice Island #1.4
Updated: Sep 11
Bright eyes open, I see strife,
feel pain from winds of words,
learn meanness and thinness from time,
watch the woods flourish,
know in my marrow, this moment.
The gift is to be still.
The trick is to not mind death.
The current of winds and waters roll on -
currents carrying words and deluge debris,
streams and whispers, hints from days gone.
Sunlight, moonlight, starlight reaching, bathing.
The secret lies in sensing one presence,
like a great raptor alighting in a high rook
and folding his wings.
Stirring winds brush my cheek.
Winds that touch everything.