Where the essence of the rain echoes
The magic beyond time,
There, as anyone knows,
There is no time.
Only the bluebirds that flit quickly
From branch to beaded branch; only
The far, jasmine-flowered eyes
Of the deer that trails beyond the tree;
Only the elusive tower
In the clouds where that ancient spirit stays
To watch and then simply to remain.
Only the One who is all,
Only the breath of the boat of the moon,
In misted shawl,
Mother of the silver pathways,
That run along the creek-enchanted stones
Of greening moss and deepening mystery.
Soon,
With the fleet
Ears of the listening hour,
Ever-perceptive,
Those black-robed ravens
(Who live,
Long,
In joy, where we do not,
In the bitter knocking wind of winter’s bones)
Will hear the exultant wail of the coyote,
(Who has never been wrong
Yet always was held ever, in
The bright-leaved essence of the rain)
Will hear now, so clearly, the tumbling power
Of the dawn over the rain-sung mountains,
Where the ringing song
Is heard to rise
Then wane,
Beyond the rock-encircled climb
To the fire-striking feet
Of Hamsa, the knowing swan
And then, anon,
Will chime
In peace the single mystic gong
That folds up the wandering wings of being.
© Sharon St Joan, 2019
Photo: Pkspks / “This file is licensed under the Creative Commons Attribution-Share Alike 4.0 International license.”/ Wikipedia