The glow of the ever-changing art overhead always brings me to a quite awe as the night sounds of the insects, The Mother’s ode to her creations that move beneath me, that call out to my dreary sleep and beckon I bring food to the mouths of the hungry, water to the thirst in man’s throat, and valiant love upon life’s home and kinship, reveals the solemn song pleading I open my eyes and ask her to dance before the last call.
The wind, with its pleasing dance of the formless, the invisible waltz with the unknown, breathes a truth that rests in me, in you and all of life. The wind brings my lips to curl up in joy, into a comfortable smile, that, even within the wind’s thrashing fury, I hold.
The moon leaves me open-mouthed in my smallness, humbled by my failing memory and released from the noise of self. The Mother’s stillness is her symphony, the wind, her strings, the insects, her drums, and the moon, her dance of eternal love.
© 2011 by mark prime