Letters To The Wind

We

We are a votive candle's flame.
We are ancient stardust and breath.
We are a river, flowing.
We are rabbits, running, running.
We are tears in the rain.

Behind the divisions, we are one.
We were born in divine union,
And in death, to it we return.
We are a poem written by God.
We're a flash in the pan, and a beautiful song.

“We are more alike, my friends, than we are unalike.”

—Maya Angelou

The Mirage

The mirage makes me pray
as if God were not present.

It thinks illusions can satisfy.
It lives in the netherworld of
"if only" and "one day when".
It is the barrier between
who I think I am
and who I truly am.

It is a ghost haunting empty ruins.

It is confirmation bias.
It is the cessation of thought.
It would have me turn away from a dying man
on the road from Jerusalem to Jericho.

I take refuge in that wisdom which tells me to
stay open to my pain
and the pain of others, and
to be content in silence.
That wisdom which takes joy
in a flower,
or a leaf,
or the song of a bird,
or the smile of a stranger,
or in simply breathing in and out.

“The dark night of the soul is the light of God.”

—St. John of the Cross

Wonder pt. 2

When does one thought
turn into another?
When is the moment
when boiling water turns to steam?

When does the river
turn into a cloud?
What are the boundaries between
my identity, happiness and pain?

Where is wisdom?
What is its weight?

When I wake from a dream
am I awake or dreaming?

---

Letter to the Wind

No matter what comes,
no matter what I must endure,
no matter what I must bear,
nail me to the present moment
like Christ to the splintered wood.

Leave me nothing to grasp:
no promises of tomorrow,
no echoes of a golden past.

Sever the cord, pry my eyes wide-
let me stare, newborn,
into the eternal now.

“The miracle is not to walk on water, but to walk on the green Earth in the present moment.”

—Thich Nhat Hanh