Tributaries

To see, really, reality.
Snap. Bolt. Thunderclap.
To ask authentically,
Not only to notice the gaps,

About ourselves, our thoughts,
But with equal intensity,
To find where we are caught,
In our minds, justifying,

Denying. Lying. Asleep.
Regarding the exterior goings on.
A world view we cling to keep,
A structure we don't believe gone,

As if truth were a thing we could mold,
Or dreams were a body we could hold.

Remember, the dynamic
Of sunrays on a child,
Playfully dancing, frantic,
Lit-up eyes, delighted, wild?

The shadows on the wall have shifted
From potted plant to silhouetted window blind
My mind has wandered, drifted,
Restless imaginings uncollected, unwind

Down the roots of trees,
Along streams and veins,
Into Earth and memory,
Through untested terrain.

Transitioning to repetition,
And habits of being,
Yet longing for vision,
Of what is there, but unseen.

Navigating the solitary,
Necessary, tundra inside,
Arriving at a tributary,
Fed by something greatly alive.

Extending a toe toward the moon,
And finding the stars applauding,
This gesture, intention to move,
The wildflowers gently nodding.

From stationary stance,
To gusty, liberating slide,
Down those dramatic glances,
Into honey comb and hive,

And nonsense and fragments,
Strung together like lies,
Revealing the butterfly of descent,
To be in the rise.