Excuse my wandering.
But how can we be orderly with this?
It's like counting leaves in a garden,
Or the song notes of black birds,
I listen to them singing this night.
I sit near the beginning of time,
knowing that the deeper the grief
the more expansive and open
To sit near the end of time,
is to witness angels coming together
to gather a celtic hero
back to his homeland.
In each times I must sit with any god
and remember it is such a cycle that brings us
to a purity and certainty of all that is real
all that matters.
Annoitment of oils, and whispers of songs,
are my connection to winds of beginnings and
ripples of knowings.
What it is, this life?