Beyond mind and words
there is a pasture.
Spirit takes aim there,
lets an arrow loose.
Pierced through the heart
I stagger, then fall down.
After a season, all that remains
in the tall swaying grasses:
a bleached skull leaking dark light,
a brief assortment of immaculate bones.
Scoured smooth by the same force
which once adorned them in supple flesh,
they’ve achieved an elegant simplicity –
no longer pining to satisfy desire,
nor regretful of what remains undone.
Stacked in a heap at the doorway of dusk,
the sole remains of a beautiful corpse, in the play
of time their destined role — a choreography of dust.
Relaxing now in the bliss of all rendered things,
they quietly blend with these words in the same way
starlight sifts through the shell of this infinite night:
not afraid, not afraid,
in their own way, brightly shining.