It comes down not to what I seek
but what the rocks and flame
and embers of a still pervasive spirit
make of silence that forgets itself.
It is the metaphor that reaches
for a truth that lurks in turn
beneath the waves. It calls out
only to the one surrendering
his consciousness and in that trust,
That is where the glory lies,
and words may not intrude.
Being then calls not unto its own,
nor does it look beyond, but rests
where need may not be understood
or even known.
Does he who meditates step into
the shadow realm that death affords?
There is a price in knowing;
neither art nor artifice
will take him there.
Nor may the odds be calculated,
breath and risk inseparable,
until one day a paradise
we didn't plan or dare to verbalize,
may then proclaim and offer forth
its own fulfillment of a dream
or, yes, perhaps new mind
that will confound it all.