They’ll be wanderers all of them,
playing hider seeking
through the miracles of the one-thing.
How else do you make eternity interesting?
Dust of the Big Bang still swirling,
and there are plans for many more stars and
worlds to spin round like fairytales of the infinite,
and for a soft returning as they realize
home is looking through their eyes.
There’s a bigger wellbeing than what goes on. There,
in the roughest hour of your becoming, notice that
which keeps through all of it
a shamanic poise.
There’s a lover unrequited here, Night Sky
every face you can make—as familiar as unknown,
as ordinary as sunlight. Feel that part of you
which has never been surprised, the same now
as when you were five years old
thinking about stars, watching the seasons play upon
your bedroom window tree. Quiet, a mood of wonder
steady as the taste of air.
There’s a part of us already home from the journey,
resting by the eternal fireside, and with us now
through dark age and renaissance, through every resurrection and
the great breaking-opens that feel like endings. Storm lantern
holding course through every misadventure. Evergreen growing through
all seasons. It shines a halo of worth around
even our most irredeemable trials.
Feel from that place now. Feel the strange intuitions
that guide your windings, like a letter sent back from the end of your life—
How it was good even at its worst, and even the lost years
shook the soul awake.
How we carry our gifts inverted as
demon, wound, darkest shadow—how they wait for us
to accept what’s been given: a perfectly folded path
in a closed fist.
How the demon turned to becomes
the door—through its eyes,
the other side. How the wound felt into
becomes a well of what was lost. And the shadow returned for
takes a breath of light, breathes itself out in rainbows.
And how the secret is always known, that to give
what was always wanted is what was always wanted,
to live overflowing.