I take the good with
the bad—excuse the cliché; upon a miracle, living into a shadow, the spider is
upon the wall; quickness like numbness, unto smiling—deep dark forgiveness.
Unborn and reborn, here born, much a celebration—much more confusion. Can’t
call it. Many factors to define it. The trumpet is the shout. Spinning through
life, the luxury of the mandala, the soul in its spirit. At a distance from
self, harnessed by itself, leaping back into itself. So neat the challenge. A
descent into insanity. With reason to ignore each reality. Looking into the
young, sensing a deepness, some delight, as partly devastated. Swimming all one
could, preparing on a chalkboard, the curriculum is on survival. Staring into a
rocket. Flipping upon a mattress. Loquats are in season. So much a treasure. So
much the torture—as to grow upon a rose.
