My mind’s book is something filled,
As if someone delightedly
Had scribbled all the margins up
While finding clues at once to build and solve
A mystery.
Linkages, synapses being formed,
Cast up a dance of spirit
When each spiral turn
Flips up colored swirls–
Green perhaps, or violet,
Scented of sour-cream spinach soup with chives,
Or buttered blueberry tort.
A loving scrutiny, a taking care,
Has put it there
In the book.
I get up and go
To that place of bodied mind, sit tall and look
Within, beyond.
Diaphragm tensing, releasing,
Hands upturned and lightly curled,
I float on a modicum
Of striped and dappled humanness.
I wait for the end of all my trains of thought,
For the last caboose to rattle by.
I wait,
For strands of dark and lighted rays
Of vast instretching kindness from all sides
To fill me,
Held,
I wait, in the last layer of seeing.