Is it of memories, or other dreams?
If all we say is what is not
How could anything be?
Maybe that’s the shine upon the green,
That we are impossible
Making ourselves real
On the barest flare of idea,
As if the echo will hold us
Just long enough to believe
In what is underneath,
The paper-thin reverberation
Where all this creation is dim,
And elements themselves are broken
In the service of wisdom –
It’s the light here, that isn’t there
In perfection, that is prized,
What is missing from our fiendish dreams
Of immortality, the way the wheat
Doesn’t need to be told to grow straight,
So gold parades gimcracks and says “this is me”
And wonders why no one believes them.
Beneath the paper-thin veil is only a
Faint beating, enough of a suggestion
That the sky is gold in our reflection,
So we have to bow down,
And though even the shiver we feel
Is our own only, so fiercely kept
Is the secret on either side,
Something – familiar – connects:
The urging of the completed
On the aimless incomplete,
How choices must be made
Without an understanding,
Just the vagaries of faith
And an inkling of home.
