In the far
Times
Of the winds forsaken,
Remains the now.
Nothing. No one.
No time.
No space.
The ship’s bow
Cuts through the open water, choppy.
No crime
Of destiny.
No mistake.
Only
That golden-footed deer
Who leaps from the star
In the heavens
Into a bright meadow
Of sunset
Lilies,
In those more
Sacred gardens
By the crashing sea.
In leaving behind
The tapestries
Of maya,
The flames of un-becoming,
The fear
That lies
Like thin ice, narrow
On the fragile lake,
One may find
The Presence,
The paintings of Kailasanathar
Effaced by centuries – long slipped away,
Yet
More
Vibrant still than ever before
When their black orchid eyes
Gleam in the night of the soul,
In resonance,
Beyond all paths of being,
Beyond the impending end.
The sky-bright day
Of Brahma
Closes now.
The birds of light have fled,
Yet
Nonetheless
The worlds awaken
In gladness,
To rise
Anew
Once more.
That which cannot be
Will be.
The cloth spun
With no thread
Becomes the diaphanous gown of myriads of stars,
The one
Pausing in the mist
Becomes the tumbling Ganges
Falling on the forest
Floor.
The bells toll.
The undoing becomes the being
And the white-crowned sparrow
Hops from world to world, leaf-green
By the bough
Of the plum tree
Along the cliffs askew
In the deep river gorge below,
While far away,
There,
At Chidambaram, where
No one, it seems, is watching,
Only the enhancing magic screen,
All begins,
The beginning, the ending, and the beginning again,
Ever near
By the clear
Moon-winged grace
Of the feet of Shiva
Dancing.
© Sharon St Joan, 2021
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