Hot Rocks and Lit Stream Stones

A long hot hike through the woods –
bending down between two boulders
to drink from this cool stream,
aching feet are forgotten.
Glancing up, these towering trees –
so many million pine needles!
Fused in the steamy heat of this scene,
I become a dark-sheened calligraphic stroke,
a man-mirage in soggy summer shimmer,
a shadow scorched onto gray rock canvas.
In some future life perhaps I’ll chance upon myself,
the one who melted into this rock mountain here,
relinquishing the satin stain of self, a charred
testament to all crispy vanishing things.
Nothing will have changed by then,
yet nothing shall remain the same.
Ah, these summer days fly by as swiftly
as a sudden shower of welcome rain –
nothing really to surrender,
no form to grasp, no name to claim.
Every stream stone is spun light spiraled down,
suspended in a cool shell of seeming forgetfulness,
submitted to the dream weave of watery motion,
only to be worn down, watered down by time
to its quintessential light, the sweet love light
which leaves no stone unlit in the blinding
flash of its singular luminous emanation.
The source of itself is darkness,
which is only this impersonal bliss
cutting a gash in the diaphanous fabric
of dreaminess with a blade of condensed light.
I’m lying in wait in water, now surrendered
to that limitless fluidity of supernal light
from which I has never been divided,
but only so very tenderly caressed.
This fullness breaking open
and freely expanding in all directions
is the supreme pleasure and natural satisfaction
of Mr. Gone, the one who travels without moving
through successive layers of our endless dreaming
to finally swallow us whole — no ripple left to mark
our sudden disappearance from the rows of patient stones,
each waiting in sublime repose for their number to come up.

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