left the diary

I seem to be, 

somewhere between, 

the footwork of dancing taps

and the breath-work trumpeting ones,

listening to my monkey-minds, 

chanting mercurials out to the heavens, 

as factual phrases 

with historical intonations.

(then turned the page).

every day waking to the highlight tides

of initial summer light early approaching

or the low crisp morning-light-tides wintering away,

as the each day journey's donkey-burdens of sunlight

to scribe the sky unevenly.

always, one part north, one part south.

for me to wander the land-surface

of daily diary-producing excursions.

(then turn page).

I use to wonder in a why fashion,

as if causality was a parental remark forthcoming.

but then, how appeared, front and center.

was that a vote of self-confidence?

now, there is carriage 

to a self of myself.

unexplored becomes the operative.

animation takes my body along.

questions only further the journey.

(then turn page).

left the diary to live it . . .