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09/21/11 - (5)
Tao
This hauntingly still, forty-degree-chill September evening, At just the moment when Wednesday reaches its temporal extremity, Metamorphoses into the very first stroke of Thursday morning, I locate my invigoratingly cold mortal flesh, Sitting on a wet bench at the far end of my cabin's dock. I raise my eyes skyward, into the ivory-punctuated black heavens, Meditate on the Tao of life, the universe and everything beyond, Trying to fathom the nature and dimensionlessness of their source, Asking the stars to translate the darkness into a wisdom I might understand.
And as I peer into the infinite plenitude of pulsating constellations, What discloses itself to my spirit, most intimately, Is the timeless reality of its galactic vastness, its unendingness, And the possibility that, eons away, another dock, Connecting another cabin to another lake in another Wisconsin, Is calling me, through the diaphanous density of the Milky Way, Inviting me to come sit, raise my eyes skyward, And reflect on myself, speculate on just how long it might take my soul To reach the other side, the other side to reach me.
09/21/11 - (5)
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