Push Back Your Chair . . .

PUSH back your chair. Cross to the window. Open look out.

The life of things bursting, moving, near and far outside

Birds are singing their heads off

In innumerable trees

Imaginary doves moaning away in them like mad

Sailing threads of light . . . leaving . . . entering . . .

Wreathing their intricate forms of what was wanted

As you look . . .

In a new vision nearly born

New air creating what you cannot fathom yet

But hoped for . . .

Offered upon the breeze of wishful thoughts . . .

Waiting, like music, blind, and almost touching

But not heard yet . . .

All ragged tapers, leaping flames from strands of flax

They, rise, shoot out, ideas burning in your central mind

But from the heart, they form, needing only a single flash

The fingerprints of life were on everything you touched

In every whirling line life’s dabbling finger writing

Push back your chair. Cross to the window. Open look out.

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Direction . . .

Given every moment but not seen

Strong and enduring direction

Passion alive in my hiding midst

The Lodestone in my heart

His compass pointing my pathway home

Carried on the Wind . . .

The wind vane turning south

Pointing to dancing as the way . . .   

Freedom and the way home dancing . . .

And how I find it in the dark

Letting go and being taken

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