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Writing is for another. Like talking, speech is for the other. May this white space surrogate for the natural appearance of thought, uncensored. In bygone years, mother’s vision took upon a likeness of ‘white space’. Her thoughts took flight. They were like wings of creative energy, expressed without pause, without censorship.
The black crow lay broken. The body open. The insides of a once warm breast, spilled now, upon tarred street, and exposed to city dust.
It was a hot day coinciding with passion. Walking with an eager step like feet that have wings. Walking flying. Walking anticipating. Walking to the moment, soon to meet the guide.
His legs are outstretched in length while he sits upon the ground. In action thus rendered passive. His torso folding forward
with hands that touch the feet. The body thus becoming halved.
Tonight, or this morning early hours, I felt compelled to revisit the memory of a retreat. I share a poem, which is inspired by my stay at Nagi Gompa, Nepal.
She was small, you might say she looked somewhat forelorn. Yet her naked feet with their wide-spread toes, lightly gripped the soil beneath them. She stood with light balance, there was strength, dignity in her pose.
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