Late Summer’s Eve, and wine-dark dusk
emerges earlier now, as if the shadows have
always lingered just behind the façade of light,
patiently biding their time, confident that
the inevitable revolutions of the planet
will favor them once more.
The impersonal firmament looms above,
pregnant with the promise of pinpoint starlight
sparkling within a vast ocean of mute darkness,
luminous progeny of an eternally silent night.
By the lake the mosquito swarms have thickened,
tiny beings dizzy with desire, clueless in philosophies
of birth and death, drawn by some anciently encoded
impulse to the ecstasy of evening, life feeding upon life,
drinking deeply of itself, intoxicated with the simplicity
of innocent desire, the search and satisfaction, and then
the search once more, in never ending cycles of urgent
humming yearning, yearning beyond comprehension,
free of any doubt or question, in absolute submission
to the mystery which beats their wings, their hearts,
which pushes their blood to seek more blood,
and blinds them to the swift approach
of the devouring dragonfly.
The wind, momentarily respectful
of the vanishing light, once more stirs itself
to browse, sift, and flit between the cooling leaves
of the darkening trees, flowing freely, filled with songs
rare ears will hear, spilling rough sinewy kisses
along the branches which extend their reach
to express the same force which births
the wind, whirling insects, wheeling
star shine — wonder of worlds
upon worlds of fervent
the same force whispering
through every beat of every heart
right now, every breath, every unspeakably
brilliant body of incandescent life.
Now Being pauses in the path of itself
to contemplate itself as you and I.
We have wandered along this path
with no idea of its beginning,
nor conception of its end.
First bewildered, then amazed, we stagger in a daze
of delight, fitted to each other as the water to the lake,
the lake we circumambulate in the darkness of our loving,
reflecting an exquisite light unborn in space and
inextinguishable in the ceremonies of time.
Any man or moth would give its eyes
for but a flashing glimpse of such a Light,
but it cannot be seen with mortal eyes.
Eyes may see all, but not themselves,
and hence we call this Light
“The Mysterious Unseen”.
It’s what makes seeing possible.
This Loving Light has
broken our tongue to pieces,
little fragments silently skittering off
on the feet of poetry and mantric whispers,
colluding with the night’s vague shapes
that seem to swirl around our ankles
in a kind of sultry dancing rapture
euphoric fireflies merely mimic.
At last we have no words for this intimacy,
this immensity of Light burning, blazing
in the depths of a late Summer’s Eve,
and so we take each other’s hand
and, hearts smiling, walk on
into the welcoming arms
of the vast oncoming