smoldering

 

smoldering, 

as a scent that beckons beyond the calling,

an underground fire 

that sweeps away my groundedness,

an invisible forest 

that produces an endless whispering,

the rub of two parts of a oneness, 

loudly,

the getting out of my skin 

to a lightness of being,

that which is foreign 

admitting the truth of connection,

where I swim into the cry of abandonment, 

for truth,

where the grind gives way 

to the smooth of the churn,

where no straight lines ever go 

to recover their directness,

where the past is molting 

while the future beams life.

smoldering is the yoga of desire 

in full expression,

where the paint on the brush 

is seepage onto the canvass,

where all details are only tails wagging 

on something vast.

is all breath in as a new world sensory 

that exposes itself 

is all moving parts, 

meeting up unexpectedly?

has no answers as motives 

but lives on inquiry?

where an arched back is more useful 

than a yawn?

get back to me further, 

even though you never left.

for we are always, 

smoldering . . .