Being Itself
I go out into the bright morning,
into metaphor and the clear, autumn air,
hoping to find it, perhaps around
a corner or further down the street
where the bitumen meets
and dissolves into a panoramic
view, a portal -
but it's never there.
I listen out for it in the pause
between waves, silent places
and in the quiet lee of myself.
Sometimes when I close
my eyes I can almost hear
its presence ease softly
into a sound -
but it's never really there.
I have prayed for it to appear
in holy places, in tall forests,
running streams and deep
in the solitude of stony deserts.
I've searched for it in the stars,
in the dervish dance of galaxies
and in the smallest particle -
but it's not there.
I have sought it in suffering,
in the ecstasies of love
and in all the threads that go
together to weave a life.
I thought it would be near
when the world around me
was hurt and crying out -
but it was not there.
I go out into the cold evening,
into the dark, pitiless air
still hoping to find it just beyond
the night, a few short steps
away, through a shadow,
past a fence and the perimeter
of me, to where there is nothing -
but Being itself.
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