Or, Advice from a Random Buddha Fountain
There is nothing neat about it.
It is lined with felled trees, fallen
branches. Palpable spiderwebs
re-spun every morning. Shards
and chips of pebbles and quartz
mulched by the everyday.
The every day. We have lived
the rapid inhale. Shared
the quick-pulsed dizziness of trying.
Over-trying. Giving in to
the panic of disheveled nights,
unfocused clover, emerald
and Kelly green bent to the whim
of petulant wind and masses,
and more we have shared through
this, our interminable sky.
We are beings who do not remember
how to begin. How to enjoy the shock
of an open circle, hairlines of trees
and leaves parted in a shameless
entrance of light. Being light.
And if you ask me how I know,
how I can be so sure, I raise
my ironic eyebrows closer
to the wrinkle in my forehead,
relax until it smooths. Subdues.
Until I, too, feel iconic oneness
artisans have tried to replicate these
millennia, these seconds of our now
life in this our palpitating world.
Go ahead, divulge the secret.
Go ahead and speak this science
of the divine. Observe what
still trickles like history and lore,
fingertips cemented in understanding
that we all eventually drop into
the same pool, cushioned by moss and
the softened lips of those who maintain
places of safety. Restoring spaces of love.
Clearings for wanderers and wonderers,
where everyone is invited in.
Katherine Mercurio Gotthardt, Copyright August 4, 2024, all rights reserved