No more beginning,
middle, end. No when
for the how and what.
into the present
ready to spring
leaving only the moment
in its quantum
multiplicity. No regrets,
no need to plan. What’s
Clouds broadcast weather conditions
in a code we know. Complex news
of the biosphere arrives, born from water vapor
and varying winds, disguised as hazy birds, cats,
masked faces, popcorn puffs, loops and whirls.
A streaming ticker tape, it drifts, darkens,
blows. Clouds pile up, shred, rush on, forming new
images, updated bulletins among the contrails,
meanings seldom clear. An art form
of impermanence, presenting truth askew,
ON READING RUMI
“The clear bead at the center changes everything.
There are no edges to my loving now.
I’ve heard it said there’s a window that opens
from one mind to another,
but if there’s no wall, there’s no need
for fitting the window, or the latch.”*
How do I get there from here?
Skin wraps organs and bones.
Eyes have lids so they can close.
Even my heart has walls.
My breath can stop,
the body be abandoned,
but the mind’s eye is eternal.
How far dare I go before losing myself;
my essence absorbed by God?
Translation by John Moyne and Coleman Barks from “Open Secret: Versions of Rumi.” Shambhala. 1999.
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