precious 7/26/19

as if there is a space between 

the space allowed for thought.

there use to be very little space

between one thought to the next.

it was a rapid conveyer belt, 

in all ways consuming 

and then moving on.

my life was evidentially that ride.

I had a set of eyes 

and developed a feel for it.

there was a sort of tunnel vision, 

to living it.

yes, the pace has seemed to slow

and that was my experiential measure 

for my aging.

but then one day, I inadvertently discovered

a minuscule small amount of space 

between these thoughts that unavoidable come

and an unclaimable kingdom of spacial reserve.

curiously these all fell out of context.

they were not 

in my ordinary sense of thought-range.

something sort of backstage to being was occurring.

an open prairie of existence, 

on its own.

not so much ground-figure

or even a world of intendedness.

but somehow confluently belonging,

its seems to have no language

or need for a worldly order.

yet, it is fluid-on in to me.

it seems to feel like I am buoyant  

on this lake of it.

no, not necessarily even the urge for rowing.

fish and sea-birds come by 

to say hi in their own way.

land as shorelines seem to be excuses

unnecessary to make.

surface and sky seem to be 

in an unusual embrace around me,

for its hard for me to feel 

like an observer in this scene.

for now, thoughts labor themselves past me

yet still possibly through me.

as if gift packages sent my way

for me to send on to others.

oddly during this time,

thoughts feel so packaged

as if I am in a fire-line, 

as a bucket brigade of thoughts

are on their way through me

to somewhere else.

seemingly buckets come and go.

yet too, that rhythm has slowed.

for now there is so much otherwise happening

between each pass.

I seem to be made more essentially

of wonderment 

and easily to have wherewithal

to make these words about it.

since so much more of this dimension has appeared.

I have to wonder 

if all of the rest of my life

had been fronting.

for this all now comes to me so easily.

and there is no search or chase about it.

this world, between thoughts,

is a ‘precious’,

being of myself . . .