I was a Lost Feather,
a Man Without Cause.
Looking for Identity, Reason, Homeland, Season.
There is a Journey somewhere:
a Calling, a Knowing, a Home-coming.
A Crystallizing in Silence.
Life proceeds along “attractively”,
for most that we know. They have a car,
and a house, and a small piece of snow.
They are “busy”, these birds are busy.
These people are never seen talking to
a flower on a street-corner, or looking
into the Divine Eyes of a a baby
in a supermarket crowd.
They have points and merit-awards
and plots reserved in the cemetery,
“right by Mom & Dad”, and they have
sugar on their corn-flakes and Organic
Pet-Food for their Geriatric Cats.
I have never been “busy”.
I have avoided and deconstructed
the word, “busy”. I don’t listen to
busy signals or go to business meetings.
We are busy avoiding ourselves,
being distracted into the world of nothingness
that we think is “somethingness”.
We are the collectors of trash – the material
garbage of the world; we are the undisputed
kings of mountains of Nothingness, which we
endlessly worship as “somethingness”.
We are Lost Feathers in a Big Storm.
We are Lost Feathers clinging to Dust
that we think is “somethingness”.
We are headed towards the Hot Fire
that burns Lost Feathers
and all their Precious Dust
into ashes of an
infinitesimally fine nature.
The Big Storm and the Hot Fire
dance & play every day.
They love the sound of Feathers
going, “snap, crackle, & pop”.
This is the Opera of Life & Death.
And everything in between.
This is the Sky of Blue,
the Swing of Breath,
the Color of the Canyon Green.
The Crystal Song of Silence,
and the Moments In Between.