postcards from France

we come here bent out of shape by our fears
our doubts our jealousies our rage

we think they lean on us   bend us low

but it is we who do the leaning

we forget that we are breathed by something

so much larger than ourselves

we forget that the universe loves

to open its bright wings in our chest

*

bee bends the white-lipped serpolet

green silence rises from the woodpecker's throat

tonight let me fall up through the indigo canopy

to those billion eyes of stars

*

 

how fast the long legs of memory stride away

he said to you once that your side of the hill

was where he wanted to be

and what is left of that now?

the hills between you many and vast

and the ocean

 *

so what says the lizard in its quick-flick-crack-in-the-wall

so what says the eagle in its long slow glide over your head

so what says the Buddha on his stone as old as these mountains

the Buddha who's seen it over and over before

who says loss is an illusion and clinging's an illusion

and death's an illusion

what matters is this here now

*

so dance for the river's loyalty

dance for first light on the aspen leaves

and dance for god   whatever that may be

while you can

© Roselle Angwin 2016