Children must leave childish things behind,
they must grow up to find their mothers.
Every human can be free, the key is to surrender,
ask help to be autonomous, to wake up to the dream
by learning the truth from its teacher, the lies that built our world.
The sun through the trees transmits sacred geometries
turning this place of flesh, in its flash, back to blueprint
and we remember how the stories and songs needed a home,
how movement needed a form to measure itself around
like the earth could seem so still hurtling in exponentials.
The only part of us not at one with the universe
is our consciousness, yet consciousness is the whole she-bang.
How can we think of our lives being different from our ideas,
or our planet being different from a black hole or quasar,
or of horses, say, distinct from rocks?
When the ancients painted eyes on stones
it was not so much to help them see
as to remember that they could.
