there are latitudes of sky in the high hills
curved surface of blue, the laced-white mist
of absorption
no place to go but a small rock that awaits your sitting
the stony silence of its past
sits shorn, cleaved off, zenstone face
sandstone spirit under rain
the sweet drops above, weeping
the clouds mass themselves along such ley lines of a life
we never understand the drifts
we never feel their upthrust on the wind
only the effects of moisture hurling downward
soul
up in the high hills walking
under sheets of the clean clean wind
the scent of every flower magnified
the light bursting over birdsong
the soar of imagination in the lizard as it rustles
or the sudden
updraft of wings
stirring the sage
*
last lifetime
there is someplace you have to walk on earth
a place you can make peace with
hidden monastery of the heart
temple bells
ringing
~
“temple bells” — copyright 2011 — all rights reserved
VALENTINE BONNAIRE - WRITER 