We make art with the life we’re given
like wild roses growing beside the sea,
finding purchase in the thin layer
of consciousness, not primitive
nor the mindless off and on machine
but green and reaching
into the cloud filled sky
with roots that search through layers,
turning light and air into music,
water and earth into song,
the poetry of sentience
speaking into the dark night
the freedom we yet imagine.

Like a stone in the shoe
the wound does not heal
‘til what wounds is removed,
the body revealing
what the soul wants to speak;
a parchment in symbol
of influences unseen,
the testimony in dreams
but written in the body.
Letting go, just that,
then more letting go;
the path of the angel
softly upon the earth,
head high and quiet.

How to push on from here,
our map shredded,
the pavement broken
bearing no clue
of the distant place
our dreams foretold.
The rivers rise,
oceans empty
and the earth groans
under the weight
of expectation.
I remember your face,
seeing you in the boy,
in the sky at sunset,
and the memories
of all who went before.
Time narrows to our footsteps,
the hollow drum sounding
beneath brown duff
and roots eternal.
There’s no holding on,
just the movement
of our faith
and the arc of stars
guiding us.
Without words
the compass within
silent and sure.

Before the tide, the wind,
the movement of the sea,
there is the pulse
that lives within the heartbeat
and spreads before us like pale green moss,
carved with crow and raven feather,
everywhere yet not a thing
except the bird-like eye
beyond the tangled wire
searing off the bonds upon tomorrow.