Cramped knees crunched into my chest,
I bend like a pine bough in the gravity
of a white-out winter blizzard.
So simple now, a small sound gone silent –
I’ve used up all my lovely snow words,
yet the snowfall just mounts higher.
Some autumn sap still flows
in these winterized veins, the refrain
of an elegy read postmortem over a mound
of fast-fading embers and cooling ashes.
All along, my search for happiness
obscured the very happiness I sought.
When Love’s match was struck,
the masks melted off, life peeled open,
and I was left raw but grateful for the favor.
All my resistance was the kindling,
all my illusions were the fuel.
This heart became an invitation,
the invocation of a consuming flame.
When all the options of experience,
of grasping and aversion, gain or loss,
were exploited to exhaustion, what remained
was waiting in the corner for its moment
to step forward and be burned.
Since it is finally starting to really snow,
I’ll only say that it was the last thing
I would part with, which is why
it inevitably had to go.
Ah, words — at best, they
will point beyond themselves,
spontaneously igniting the kindling
of any lingering judgment or affectation.
Just so, there is no need
for any extended engagement
of this clueless clown’s juggling act.
I could just split the seams
of this carnival costume and leap
once and for all through the flaming hoop
of any fixed identity derived from hope or fear.
While the snow outside is piling higher,
I don’t want to ramble on about the things
I should have done — I just want to run naked
in a skin of blinding light, drawn closer and closer
to the blaze of Love’s furnace, and lose myself
completely in the searing heat of That.