Wandering Thought # 30

There is no sense perception that does not immediately transfer itself into our understanding and imagination, gaining interpretation through a moral and aesthetical lens. There is nothing we feel, see, or experience that does not call our entire human history and heritage, cultural, moral, and aesthetical. That a flower is more than a flower — and here we disagree with Science that declares the functionality of things their ultimate truth — is so because since times immemorial the human spirit and imagination interpreted it as so, created it as so. A flower is always more than a flower. And the same is true about every other object of the world, about life itself as witnessed and lived in the human spirit, as created by humanity and the human genius.


Stand still. The trees ahead and bushes beside you
Are not lost. Wherever you are is called Here,
And you must treat it as a powerful stranger,
Must ask permission to know it and be known.
The forest breathes. Listen. It answers,
I have made this place around you.
If you leave it, you may come back again, saying Here.
No two trees are the same to Raven.
No two branches are the same to Wren.
If what a tree or a bush does is lost on you,
You are surely lost. Stand still. The forest knows
Where you are. You must let it find you.

— David Wagoner, 1976, found in David Whyte, The House of Belonging

Free Verse # 336 (she wore his love)

Like a sleepless night
I stretch along your shore,
my moonlight curving
along your seabed
raises your waters
into a citadel of fire.


Here I stand
without a shadow to cast
into the fading light of dusk,
my poem a rose
wilted from waiting.


inside my ribs
cold hands
lulling out a star.


The day’s first cup of tea…
this vaporous breath I send,
a shawl wrapped around your body.


She wore his love
like a veil
unseen yet glowing,
transfiguring the world;
those who saw it
failed to understand.


Soaked in mist…
her skin a sea
of aching flowers


White night…
the moon in her flesh
a stream of fire


His touch in her skin,
a flame without a hush


Perfume is the flower’s victory; silence, poetry’s.

The Offering


I knew what it meant
the apple she offered me,
and still I bit;
I bit, looking her in the eyes,
and I will bite, again and again.
I bit and the shared sin laced us,
in the infinite well of knowing bound us,
one flesh, one soul, one longing,
together, in time’s eternal grasp.

And then came the wings of God
blanketing us with a laughter so white,
with a warmth so deep
that all awareness from our minds was shed
and what remained was a single heart
in His Heart, throbbing.