2023–08–30 | K’AT

Drop instrument,

ephemereal strings

shimmering for a moment

in the wind, yet forever appearing

as eternal web of creation:

longing lines, through mists and miles, 

reaching always connective space:

light, breath, subtle notes.

Here is: a dew dwelling 

of webby woven water.

Threads and rays emanating from a new center, reaching out with fresh, thin fingers from their cradle of reborn thought. The original weaver began, earlier than any beginning. The old map and its rigid ways to connect stars and meanings – it had to fall away, again and again, leaving only silence at the heart. In the womb of a droplet, within oneness, a new life began. From a shelter a tight spiral, new song was emerging slowly, very slowly. Until expanding circle of consciousness felt anchored in the deeper earth than before, and was able to hold its veins of new architecture, flowing wildly. 

Finally, reaching out to the world, with lightning threads, the music began. Touch by touch, the first weaving was the face for bright blue of the moon. From the ocean of listening to the emptiness, a home was born. Now, the opening threads, coming and going, are making friends with the universe.

Ripe oats, good canoes, shuttle-like grains, ready to go: to nourish, to fall, to sail into the soil or become bread. Each thread is pointing somewhere, branching with thin lines up to the boundaries, and beyond them. The web, greeting its limits, has dropped the heavy: a cloud could easily float through its light.

Now, they meet, in fierce strength: hope and burden, resting eyes and laps, in each other, in embrace, in peace. The one who longs to rise and the one who wants to fall with gravity, are in conversation, wave after wave. Around autumn is about to switch on the flames. 

Over the cooling waters arrives the call, a message from the crystal mountain: rest in me, take my heart and take the dark. The towering arrogance, the peaks cutting the sky have been worn away. I am your naked and bone-white primordial mother. I am worn to the core. I see through the eyes of your fragile net, and I remain in your eyes in the morning, as I sing from my ancient morning, where no people existed. 

Now I knew, there is no going back to the old days. Sparks made nest into my hair and said: burn, be the source, plunge into the mirror of the moon and fall through her to your peace.

The lake is floating to meet me, silky milky blue. We see each other, we cry the waves all way back to home, to their cradle. The tear makes its way like a needle with a breast, weaving hot and cool, sweet and salty, white and blue. Finally, dream returns from the night, and takes the river out of the box, into its new eyes.

Swing, my life, and sway 

with these webs of wandering waters

where a meadow bursts from a drop,

and apprentice of time limps in awe, 

feeling the innermost instrument

birthing new liquid strings, and 

music of earth-naked fire.