This poem took eight years to write
It takes time to feel through the geography of separation; to identify what is separated one from the other; to lament. And, it is always from somewhere within the arc of the circle, the rhythm of topology, that truth and meaning are revealed in its landscape; where death and birth are separable as concepts only.
And, as the circle turns, samsara like, although the place and space are never as before yet our grip upon the rim will ever cause us to move onward through the thousand little deaths that lay ahead; lamenting now the nature of the map and sometimes frightened by lay of land.
Rose Petals; Grey Dawn
Soft, on pebbled beach in darkness,
Shadowed from the moon by reaching pines,
Still reflective waters at my feet.
Chilled and misty fingers draw their lines,
Cold and damp they reach across to meet
Choking vision from my eyes.
Slow in yielding to defeat;
Silently, how silently, the cries
Soon lying in a darkness not their own.
Coming dawn, the breath of light across the skies
Claiming life before the soul has flown;
Pulsing life no one has ever known;
Like the petals of a flower washed ashore.