At Grauman’s

I don’t know what it means,

this semblance of purity,

atoned on the pavement

like death,

a hand print in concrete,

silent, still

holding frame,

letting go flesh and bone.

Some trees dig down

for pockets of moisture like this,

letting go of sky,

pushing in through earth.

 

Subtle as it is,

sky does ask one

to rise to the occasion.

And one always and only

rises as high

as height.

There is no more to destiny.

 

Except that it leaves its mark;

except that kneeling down

to make it;

except that wet gush

between the fingers;

except that one moment

is the whole picture.

Height is imaginary. Depth is all there is.  From there, a moment, any moment shares its deepest essence and leaves its mark on the world.

© Andrea Mathews, 2015

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Forest

Wind shapes
cathedral shadows
lisping into openness
from the edge of a mound,
grasses whisper
and repeat themselves,
sensing when leaves, branches,
fruits fall.
Can I move in the evenness
of this sense
without disturbing my right hand?
Are the edges drawn with pencil
and ink, thin lines of reason,
or pauses in the rhythm;
will I find my own time,
cast my own sacred shadow,
bend my own limbs,
drop what I own
into the sound of earth
going round?

Nature has this way of being natural, that we lack. We have worked hard at complying with all that makes us unnatural.  In fact, we fear the nature in us, for we believe it is also savage.  But actually it is organic authenticity.  How do we find that rhythm, that organic sincerity that just does what it does because it is in it to do? 

© Andrea Mathews, 2015  

Photo by weiweihua on Diviant Art

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