I saw the sun rise this morning over Mt. Hood, the glow that announced to the horizon its approach. There should be in the life of every man, every woman, that moment when seeing dawn lift, peel back the shroud from Mt. Hood causes the sudden intake of just that much extra breath.
I wear my heart on my sleeve, he said, so you know what I’m feeling at any given moment and I am an open book so you can read my thoughts whenever you wish to do so.
His smile said he was proud of this state, and he did say it set him apart from most people.
She laughed and said to him, “But you know by being so transparent no one needs to spend any time with you, they know your story. And, he added, “If I ever have a heart attack, they won’t ruin a good shirt when they apply the defibrilator.”
There was the collectivist period, those years when I wanted a copy of every book on Buddhism I could locate, a full and nearly complete library, sutras and philosophical discourses included.
There was the moment when I realized the absurdity of all that, the attachment to texts to enable me to find the ability to practice non-attachment, and I gave the books away, and finally set off on the path the books only poorly described.
In the twilight of the dove, that moment when the sun’s retreat has only just begun my shadow stretches ever so slowly into oblivion.
I hear it whisper to me a promise to return and I want nothing more than to believe it, for the grant of another day is a small wish granted, one I make with the knowledge that the genie of age is growing ever more tired of responding to my unchanging request.
Appearing night makes no promises and the stars consider me and us all inconsequential in the celestial scheme of things
Arising into night the departing sun tangos away with its cloud, memories soon forgotten.
Other dancers take the stage, now a romance, now a war dance, feathers raised in prayer to unseen gods.
Night will soon bring its curtain across this stage, the avian casts’ final bows taken the theater will darken, awaiting another performance, a new script tomorrow, but for this solitary moment of frozen grace, it is we who write the conversation, our lines sung by actors who know only nature’s unrelenting song.
There is nothing like, no words to adequately describe, that moment when a cloud- hazed sun lingers wishfully just above the horizon, grasping the sky with brilliant talons of light, fearing becoming lost in a darkness that will, on this night of the new moon, engulf us all in its inky shroud.
We know, or pray, the sun will return in hours, just as the sun knows its work is never done so long as it has light to give, hoping that final collapse is eons away.
As it finally settles beyond sight, we smile, retreat to the table and consume our dinner and wine, our daily companion forgotten until its dawning return.