It is that time of night
when the silence is alive with possibilities
That time when solar tides turn
without a murmur
When our bodies quicken unconsciously
When the minute hand steps unheard onto the hour.
Can we be present at our own birth?
Here is something you cannot eat,
something you cannot fill your belly with,
something you cannot buy, cannot wear,
something that offers no hiding place
from whom you truly are.
It is cleverer than air,
clearer than sound,
faster than quicksilver,
simpler than sight …
Here is the echo of your heartbeat
in the moonlit amphitheatre.
Here is the cataract of your blood
pulsing beneath mountains.
Here what you cannot control
governs the destiny of nations.
Here a teardrop is louder than thunder,
Here a sigh is more potent than a tornado,
a wish more persuasive than a tv commercial.
Here is intention laid bare,
its sleeping body a devastating prize
for all who dare approach their inmost
Seeing such beauty
who would consider themselves worthy
to touch /hold /enjoy?
Is there any more intimate, more precious, more dangerous love-making
than the engagement between our waking self and our dream self?
our dream self turns,
its perfume cascading like may blossom,
healing the crescent dawn with careless brilliance.
So it is that we approach this most sacred love of our lives
with deepest fear that, if after years of distant adoration,
we should dare to awaken this dream self of ours
only to find it would not recognize us as its carcase and carapace
could not see in us the beauty it seeks in a mate?
How the heart quails as it approaches
the vision of its own otherness
the glistening mirror than records
all love’s transactions.
In this Easter dark, now, it is available
“You are the enemy I killed, my friend.”
Your darkest part is the source of your greatest light.
Release the trapped energy
and your black hole becomes the sun of a new galaxy.
The birdsong of every resurrection morning
chants the implicate order of all exuberant nature.
Life itself full-throttle. Purged of sleep and dark,
each counterpoint is a new colour in the world’s thought.
What has been transformed by death is nothing other than what you always were.
It is I, the enemy you killed, who now stands before you
paler than a moon fading into the dawn sky
I, the dream self with whom you enjoyed the standing instant,
but who dissolved as you tried to shackle me.
It is I, the dream Christ, companion of your utmost wishes,
I who was here, and you knew me not.