I write,
never to be read.
I walk in the forest,
never to cross paths with another.
I breathe your breath
but never to see you in sight.
words fall down,
out of me,
as if tears of cognition.
we, as all of us
are albatross, homing pigeons
birds of prey or morning doves,
all home-seeking in sacred,
making our sky-bound ways.
the forest,
for all its embrace of shade
and warmth of dappled light
to console us.
shed in my movement,
our movement
until we are all taken up
in to a lightness of dance.
that we share breath
as the inner tattoo of this moment
into livingness
and not for image’s sake
as if coveted
but as blessed,
as obvious as physical embrace.
hold me,
by your read.
if you are candid on the intake
then we are dancing.
delight in your self-reverence.
I, in mine
until overwhelmingly,
we all unite . . .
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