Little Lights

She scatters her little lights through the flight of the owl,

gracefully settling down on the tiniest of branches,

holds his majestic weight like a cloud.

The eyes are watching, building, blowing,

scratching their little rhythms into place,

dividing their little quiet into spaces

unseen, unheard

until the sound of wind comes from the weight of the owl,

brings home fish for bear,

honey for bee

and the simplicity of her little lights,

thinking her unsubstantial thoughts

just so.

We want every moment stacked full of importance, making our contributions real, making us real.  But these little lights, they are the grace of a day.

© 2015 Andrea Mathews


Cool slips of reddened leaves

fly—an eagle—past


Here you become the nothing

sky is,

whispering past hearing

into the silence,

capturing pieces of memory

hope, dream;

scattered ashes


as blood, bone,

scheme, memory, whisper.

I am that I am not

to be I am.


Part of becoming who we are, is realizing that which we are not–but that which we have been attempting to be. We cannot say “no” to who we are not, however, until we have a place to land in the Authentic Self.  But discerning the difference is an inside job where we sort out the distinctions in the dark by braille. Yet, either this or something as profound as a near death these are the pathways past the blindness of identity, mask and costume and into essential beingness. 

© Andrea Mathews, 2014

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