The Rapture of Dichotomies
we give ourselves
the joy of creation.
the breath of expansion;
the fingers of a hand closing.
we speak of a tree or a peach
and know it as
the gift to ourselves
we had forgotten.
the reach for a reminder
of our perfection.
each why or touch a wonder
and on this night
and within this form
you can be a candle
in the dark.
a swish of sound,
the silent breathing
of a bathing light,
and another sunrise comes.
at times such beauty
brings the gift of tear.
filling our pockets, as
the meat of our flesh
rolls down.
leaves turning brown,
you see.
another mother leaves the door
a crack
someone there in the light
just beyond,
is lost
in the rapture of dichotomies.
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