Sinking into fields of depression
where all we say or do seems somehow wrong
and oh, the storms of self-reprisal raging deep within
while still, the world spins into concentric orbits
for the dawn (oh dawn of living glory)
will always come again in an ascent of living,
loving adoration of all life.
Whispering, the winds begin
to tell a tale mysterious
enhancing mood by tracing routes weíve yet to travel on
and galaxies begin to form within a new perception
of this world viewed from inside out
from angles never quite conceived
by mortal mind before
where angels soar to make amends
for the baseness of the course of past survival.
A majesty of great release
repeats itself unendingly,
for here we come to know the sense of all infinity -
where every tint and hue begins to form,
and dreams begin the process of creation;
relaxing into heat that never quite feels hot
yet warms the icy feel of never real.
For there, just at the deepest
depth of all depression
is exactly where all sense of height begins;
when we finally take the time to delve and dive,
opening our every sense to the art of listening
Can you hear the endless chanting of all movement?
Look then, into the ever-changing
mists of dreams not quite yet here
imagining themselves into intensity of form
contracting into root, then seed, and feeding on
the magic ever moving all around.
Sunken over centuries of mindís
yet building in a strength beyond magnificence,
our future calls, insisting to be heard;
more clearly than the mass we know as movement,
insisting that we change within its depth
in this deliverance from all despondency.
As the mists of magic mindís
suddenly begin to clear to sight
and all that we hold dear becomes
one central image, so inclusive
that sun and moon stream forth in majesty;
just as the winter fields respond to spring.
And every hint of love we
bring to being
outlasts the countenance of intellectual appeal,
revealing that the source of all thatís real
is here, in every particle and chance
that dares to dance this loveís refrain
to rise and to become
our April rain of flowering . . .
? Michaelette ?
Copyright© 2001 Michaelette L. Romano
All Rights Reserved
Take me home...