We are neither of the past nor the future –
this immense morning sky turning over mountain,
river, and valley will never dawn, but balance
on the edge of night’s last outpost, forever
frozen in a pose of hopeful anticipation.
No rooster will crow
to herald the end of time’s night –
no holy morning rituals, nor anything
that can be perceived or conceived
will ever cross that threshold.
In these transient forms of flesh and fur
fashioned from fine threads of formlessness,
we are the shape that climbs out of nowhere,
reaching out from the fleeting dream of itself
with pale phantom limbs, no more visible
than obscured, no more light than dark.
There are as many appearing
and vanishing realities as there are
dreaming beings, with each dreamy plot
a creation unique to that daring dreamer.
All these incalculable number of dreams arise
in synchronistic patterns, weaving their musical
strands and sonorities into one symphonic whole –
the pure enjoyment of a primordial Dreamer
whose name no tongue can say.
Deep inside that pure mystery
no meaning awaits to be discovered,
nor any secret revelation that will grant
some tidy resolution to the fictional story
of the appearance of anything and everything.
How we would have this tale turn out
makes little difference as we push forth
from a dock of dreams on the boat
we’ve come to call “our life” –
a ship whose chartered course
is set to sail out onto the sea and sink.
The same one bidding farewell from the shore
will welcome us home in the ocean’s deep –
we are the one from which we run,
the same for whom we seek.
There never was a trace of path,
the waters fold back in our wake –
no need for guide nor compass
in this endlessness we roam.
Where could our loving dream us
that is not already home?