The structures were well illustrated
The choices were made after long studies
I was surrounded by experiences
All willing to part with their advice
My decision oscillated between practical and fairy tales
My imagination painted the stories
Traveling with premonition of arrival
In altered reality
I smiled because I took
The road not taken by others
Discovered a deeper experience.
To swing, to sit, to walk a path
I hear your voice calling
For one more choice.
We have daily choices
Though one may prefer to walk a narrow lane
In perfect balance playing an accordion
Color and line are inseparable
Like peanut butter and jam
And most things in life.
Does survival means choosing one over another
Mortals drink from a glass or a cup
But sometimes we become too choosy
Even when selecting between a peach and pear
As if only one leads to imagination
You walk alone thinking of beauty
Among the terror, the forbidden, the sacred
Should we not be in tune within ourselves
To understand the nature’s resonance
The inner calling? Some gather mushrooms
In the forest, others watch the circling birds
To connect with the sacred.
It took me a long time to return
You might think I’m incomprehensible and foolish
When the night deepens
you will see fireflies and stars
I will be the one to live near the marsh
with frogs, fish, and mosquitoes.
I will wake up near a white heron, magnificent
and regal and the train will be long gone.
The alacrity of building cairns
or solemnity of putting one stone on top of another
feeling an “overwhelming peace and spirit of oneness”
one doesn’t have to divide the inseparables
or connect the irreconcileables
neither master nor slave
neither safety nor fear, nor pretenders
one is always looking for eggs sewn inside pockets of grass
or “pacing the path above the rocks”
trying to distinguish seeds from metaphors
sands in the world can swirl a storm
sands in the world can build a cathedral
plod on, have no fear for the dragon around the corner
one can find one’s way unaided
I see ahead an elderly couple walking,
holding hands, she half-leans towards him
he limps his way straight ahead
no escape, no complaints, no brooding
experiences are experiences, “are not to be thought away”
an older woman passes me, says
“they grow old but they don’t age”
countless sheltering stars
welcome the flowers of May
the basket of laundry can wait.
edgarone2
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