Trackless, breathless, over ages, rest between these mountain sides, in this high valley. A resonant sound, at the edge of human hearing, whispers angels songs, answering a mountain wind...travelling.
Now, we listen, in a deeper sense, to silence speaking, from unspeakable heights. Somewhere, in this night, a light of spirit beckons...golden thing, fellow being, molten, dripping, precious golden heat...ineffable, incredible.
As this tableau plays out, no mortal witness be, save we, who ever are, however what, having in this sky, our source...from high heaven, Earth, herself, thrumming to a vibrant love, holding to her breast, our coming.
At this timeless time, we are, unknowing of the why, yet sharing all things, ice and fire...merging in this mountain aerie...having here, but once, our purpose...truly, giving all we are.
namaste
Written by Bruce James Clyde, at Deming, New mexico
Art: high mountain lake, google pic
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