This is the house of Love, which has no bound nor end.

Mont Serat

I have walked these woods before,
in times long passed now,
have felt myself in the old faces
singing songs since forgotten,
my stony fingers forming our first shape,
stable enough to bend light itself
so that, if you stand in just

the right place

you can see a rainbow
hidden in the heart of this thing
and slide into night unafraid,
even as the cliff moves beneath your feet,
finding your way again in darkness,
looking on in mountain time:
a million years at a glance
so that the odd falling stone
becomes a constant stream
of letting go
what makes us up.

All that we might stand for one moment
and look out on the sun become an egg
as it settles on our far horizon,
a cracked yolk, broken by beauty
and the burden we all bear because of it,
split in the distance by playful clouds
and your dance of rising things.

Later, the moon like a lingering fragrance
you remember from your lost childhood,
wondering between the trees
as if each were someone you grew up with,
laying your hands on their bareness
where bark is a feeling you’re feeling,
roughly, still and silent in the stony earth,
drawing life between crumbling faces
because holding up what must come down
has its own kind of truth;
its own kind of tender sacrifice
which speaks through those songs we sang
looking up at god’s outline and the altar
beneath an old monolith that hummed
with deep devotion a dying heart:

beats like falling boulders,
balanced somehow between
the endless sky and a straight drop
back to where they were before,
still broken, still bust apart
by all the beauty to which we must
bear witness.


The heart speaks louder

When flying