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 

swaying behind

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.