The Silent Dance

How long

are we

to write prose,

sing songs,

  Photograph by  Susan     W. N. Ruach

Photograph by Susan W. N. Ruach

preach sermons,

offer lectures,

convey

truth

singularly?

 

Can the ineffable mystery

toward which

we point,

about which

we write, 

on which

we orate

be captured,

caged,

held,

sculptured,      

designed,

delivered

so tightly, 

then

released

so lightly,

 

or is it just

beyond the story,

the poetic verse,

the iconoclastic image, 

the slithering simile or multilayered metaphor,

spoken in feathered form,

lifted toward the sky,

released to fly

as creators

in their telling,

hearing, meaning-making,

touching hearts, stirring souls

in the eternal space

between and among

 us?

 

A pair of dove

in hand,

set free from such

liminal space

to go and be

what they will.

 

When will we

trust the dance,

the body of silence

the under-soul of non-space

flowing

beneath

the currents

of what we see?

 

Out of such

eternal solace,

multitudes of tranquil stars shine,

insights whisper

the vale between

two worlds

tears,

revelation

in the moment

happens.

 

From there,

a glimpse

into the temple

of misbegotten

sounds and

longed for

silence. 

 

Eyes

awaken

from deep sleep, 

open,

to what

has been;

the nowhere

and everywhere

out of which

the divine

vortexswirls, 

inviting creation

in the

generous, gentle stir of

pre-dawn light.