I’m riding light
etched far above my shadows
casting brilliant stark on a smooth grass plain
the sun is strong the sun is
holy
holiness is all around me. I taste it—
touch it, brush it,
holiness snuggles against me
tucks my hair behind one ear.

I’m running light
through bright woods of stillness
these creatures know no habit
the trees here grow askew
my mind spot lights on truth
my quest finds me
a sort of softer soul.

I’m resting light
the canvas sky of dressed down discourse
floats in front of my uplifted gaze.
I note these wisps of fainted sainthood
shuffling through melodies
of wind.

But
soft and gentle
I begin to anticipate—
Then
the heaviness comes;
weights attach
and sink me down
I close my eyes
and the clouds cover
the forest quickens.

I recall:
how fleeting this stillness
how it shall leave me
dump me
back into society
back into chaos and rushed footfalls
and skirted responsibilities
and finger pointed backbiting
name calling trigger baiting disarray inducing
complete disorder and lack of kindness—

and the anticipation
of the impermanence
of all this holiness—
this is to suffer.

The sun, still bright;
I don’t ride so light
don’t run, so light
don’t rest–at all.
I suffer, instead,
because it won’t last.

As if
it were not made more beautiful
because of it.

 


The reader brings his or her own experience to the poem and creates meaning. Here is my experience.

 

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