The Harried Mystic

α

nowhere to go;

a monsoon-like day, awash in drip-spray tides, just seeping,

if only I were a fern, a moss, or an evergreen soaking before that cold-dry sleeping,

well, then the day of celestial tears would be a boon, a gift, a lift, a blessed reaping.

β

deep saturation;

inside leaks, dreadful-time, stresses and strains of an aged man whining,

oh, if only I were a blade of grass, or a bird at  table at the worm-feast dining,

then bring on the rush, the abundant bath, there, on the  large branch I’d be shining.

γ

abyssal boredom;

and old ideas, those mildewed showers,  shadow-mind’s needful framing,

but oh, if I were a water-fowl, on aquatic-wings, or a young child gaming,

then imagined worlds opened, a sea-dweller I could be, and swift like a dolphin, I’d  leap,

head-long, fearless,

and be free.

Δ

best place to be!

Ω

© Brother Anton and The Harried Mystic, 2009. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited.