Wouldn’t you agree? Perhaps we are getting there…

Sharpened, waking edges
and stirring sleeping ones.
Mates connected with entwined roots,
if only recollected.
Revive the dream with a palm pressed against wet rocks,
or on bended knee, graciously, softly
upon the plush moss of a quieted wood.
Softness does no harm,
one might argue it unquestionably lessens the “grit and sweat under weary life.”
And still underneath it all, where organism turns back into nourishment,
the ultimate coil of death that doth return.
Let us revere the decay of ordinary form.
Calling onto spirit
of the simplest of means.
Still in prayer and rich in ceremony.
We transit into sleep, seed and fecundity.
But first, dreamtime…deep, deep wintery nights under a celestial starry sky.
Hush now baby don’t you shed another tear for all travelers return here where all fardels no longer are for bearing and remembered in your prayers pretty please, all my sins.