Winding Threads

Who knows where the first thread came from?

Some said a word came forth from the void.

Some say the eveything was balled up in the nothing & boomed forth.

Some says awareness arose in a grassy grove, flowers & nakedness.

Still more claim that all is just an illusion, & that this immaterial is ours to exploit in the temporal.

That a thread emerged is hard to deny. One became many but joined. Awarenesses cropped up & receded. Beauties & ugliness shaded by perception, merging, joining in triumphant dances. Angles bursting, burgeoning. Throats joining & stems twining to bud forth subtle blossoms in canopy.

Many feet padded many ways & hands clutched embracing, archaic & eternal forms with the joyful reverence of childhood first experience & the wisdom of old age which is with us from the start. How to balance the ironies? Juggle & struggle & smile in acceptance. Persevere, plough your land with a reverence that borders on love as religion. Standing, sitting, laying down, feel the threads that bind you from this to this. The names are a reference, the heart of things an enigma that forever spools forth.

Looking down this ravine the creek cuts through with moss & fern draping rock with the dalliance of rich mineral days. Moist air billows & there are the loping flights of insects, dragonflies & horseflies, which many claim are not dragons or horses. Definitive claims are so humorous.

A great psychologist is not just one who is open but one who opens. Analyzing this we do not come to paralysis but to the emerging universe. Healthy through neuroses, alive with dying, full of the resonance of love whispered through the tree limbs of loss.

Taking one side obscure another. Thinking one thing think again. Thinking many things think more. Puncturing with characterless story, reconsider your vulgarity. Lift the mine from the field so that the animal dance of the tribe is not dressed with unnecessary tattoos.

Crossing this line, tripping the wire, so much more is possible. The window falls to open air. Smells of fresh dalliance infiltrate your nostrils as if your mistress was all about you. Busting the busts of heads, representation asks to be represented in the flesh, in the connections we make with the living. Water travels show the wanderer her elusive snaking. As each skin sheds the moon grows brighter in scope. Fluoresence transforms into essence past flora. Essence of dirt in the palm, finger in the petal-center. As the lines prolifigate one shifting line emerges: the ever elusive what-is. The name that is never spoken before what-is changes. We can only keep it in mind for a fragment of a second but the lines play out brilliantly in the one line until the possible lines of what can be begin to dominate our hope: a world of giving that we give back to in harmony that is a tension of song rife with melody of melodious undertakings that don't pound the life from the ground in the name of abstract moneymakers who usurp the world by writ of law. Life is nothing if not the continuance of hope for more, for a better world, for an existence that marries its virtues to greater contexts & actualities.

The book is closed to reach contexts in the hands on the rocks. The heel eases into toes intent on discovering the eagle's perch. Eyes with the water of oceans spill into sightlines reverberating songs span centuries. Ask me this, "What threads have you found that are most worth following?" Injustice rots the links & the understory is too often a hideous subtext of wisdom discarded.

Fellow mendicant let your connections reach you, don't set up barriers, trapdoors & brutal tests in your cooridooring a maze dam the flow of nutrients to the core of song. The ease that sets the sun to joyful work is one thread within your grasp, twinkling a quiver. Grab this lifeline with more than fingers. Reach out for the paradigm that, setting the warheads on edge, sees the forest for the fall which is the inner flight of growth neverending, a waterfall that is more tears than tears. Never ending the instruction of right action. Adapting this end of putting food in the mouths of the hungry, compassionate enough to dodge the destruction of that voice with the facial expression of a saint residing somewhere in the folds. Reasoning without too much hard empiricism, reasoning with the will of a tempest for sheltering the wilted flower clusters of this island in the space sea.

When the threads seek from every pore fill them with light intentions whose weight is peerless, sight beyond sight. As you make grander realities in the name of a higher ground question from the depths & sing a word which forever changes. Winding fingers spreading the earth for a sapling to carry on the legacy of living.