For the n th time

For the n th time
have I not spoken
that if the fire is lit, given form,
its heat takes root everywhere?

Speak, lazily, even if in a dream
step into my imaginary land, n+1,
Across the frontier of our dark selves
untie your hair, let your clothes fall to the ground.

The chase, irresistible as ever
Your hair wild, like the morning sun
Your heart clear and everything is linked by light.
Quietly, gently, the first snow covers our tracks.

things and people exist in the time and space that is given to them; this place, here and now and not otherwise. each reflects the light in their own unique way or refuses it; each comes to understand life-if at all- on their own terms, at their own pace, and each finds their distinct flair, their own 'song', as if there had been no songs before.

but is it not also the case that each person and thing lives with an ideal that reaches out into another dimension, an image into which they try to grow, deepening, darkening their faces?

We can be pulled there, must allow ourselves to be so..the pure land where inner demands are met with clarity of mind and heart. to find one's own centre means to be aware of that of others.

Your thoughts skip a beat when you hear people say-and one often hears this said: life is but a game, which is another way of saying: life is life, sovereign becoming. As if to say, all what we say and do now is an accident, of little import, does not reverberate into our future, or find an echo with kindred souls, does not take away the heaviness of our hands, does not reveal a glimpse of our 'thinner face' or bear witness to any truth.

It is said that Vincent Van Gogh could distinguish between nineteen different types of white. In his diary he wrote: "When a man expresses clearly what he wants to say, is that strictly speaking not enough?"