The places that sing when there
are no people to listen are
the places where our
gods can always
be found.
The mark is on the glass and not
the sky. The smudge is on the
lens and not the eye.
When you let go of it all you have
to wonder: what else is
out there?
Somewhere a field is being
whipped by a hot wind;
our gods are there.
Somewhere a fetid swamp
steams at dawn, thick
with insects and
leaping fish;
our gods are there.
Somewhere a landscape of ice
and snow stands as still as
death, a place where
even water
doesn't
move;
our gods are there.
Places of staggering beauty and
peace, places with their own
heartbeats, vivid with life
that depends only on
itself,
the
spinning wheel,
radiant, eternal, all
encompassing; a doorway
with no door, a boundary with
no line, a pool with no surface to
break, to pass through, that can
never be closed against you,
sealed away, bought, sold,
borrowed, or stolen.
It can't be owned.
It's always there.
It doesn't wait for you, pine for you,
need or want you. It's just there,
when you want it, when you
need it, when you decide
to shed all petty fears
of shame and
judgement
(transient things)
and step inside, embrace what's
here, what we can see...
sometimes...
feel
always
(if we let go),
what we can hold onto,
dwell within, allow within,
what we can become
a part of, if we
choose.
(And we can choose.)
Always.
August 31, 2026
