Walking Backwards

Sometimes I walk backward,

force my other senses to see–

I must be barefoot,

toes curled into the dirt

to find the way.

retro–

There’s a shift, I wish for rain. 

the day is close–

my eyes in the back of my head,

pinecones roll.

third eye sleep between

two eucalyptus.

Uncomfortable, 

full of conditions and rules,

it comes with hard edges. 

Swing... 

between two,

settle to soft sway

in a breeze of no dreams.

Soak up the dark,

treed– 

sweat pools

hanging in the hammock 

between petite death

and the abyss

quenched by the stars

and yerba buena,

conscience. 

It twists, expands, and contracts.

Lungs bark

facedown 

in swarms of quakes,

cold owl dirt bat–

the elements of the center

are now at the edges

stirring into the universe.

Upside down roses,

the trees deepest root

is the radical–

jump,

reaching the ground 

of my being,

roots see the stars

of my soul’s purpose.

Resiliency

bounces back

connecting to the genuine purpose:

how to best serve the world.

Each person has a life thread

of vitality and meaning and creativity.

Each of us must go in the direction 

that is attractive and fearful,

transform fear into respect. 

pick up our thread 

and pull to the center 

to weave the world back together.

What changes the world

changes the soul,

entrance– vestigial response:

ear perking, goosebumps, hypnic jerk.

The fragrance of invisible flowers

trace–

of parallel being

in a bouquet of love,

fingers–

cling to roots–

of epiphytes. 

Beyond death’s sister

an infinite gaze

burns a quantum

mark–

of entanglement 

cartwheeled 

left–

with yearning

traversing the false dawn,

essence– 

a rendezvous with destiny.

Where does the sky start?