Star Autumn Twilight

New Life The still resounding bloom of New Life, trembles in the deep green pines; sparkles its sublime truth in the blue-silver surface of the high mountain lake; or whispers its irresistible call to the returning soul, like the glimmer of words which form themselves into golden leaves, only to drift down from their boughs in the sweet November rain. Until one wonders, again at the preciousness of a single poem, as though it were evidence enough in itself, of a new pulse in the blood, or the revival of the heart’s rhythms which will not allow, one to dream anymore of staying sadly in the same ways, nor to miss the meaning, of the turning seasons and the white-flying days. One does grow from the depths, like an epiphany or even a remembrance. One blinks one’s eyes and looks, seeking again for the on-rushing river of life, which slips away from oneself like the phases of the moon, but which nevertheless runs through time only to enter into the center of the soul, and to enliven the heart with a song. The River A wide, holy stream silvering along beneath the wind. The subtle psalm of the waters, which possess such a rich speech of their own, and indeed seem to poignantly say, to our attention, and if nothing else, that we are here. And are we to overlook this word? For the river is the source of a timeless wisdom, which represents a final running together, of all opposites. Because our simple presence, or as if, our mere existence, to which in its timeless turning, the river is a fluid, crystal key, which can then open up to us, the awakened recognition, that yes, our only being here, is a fact altogether irreducible, stark, at once in the plainness of its mystery, and in its ultimate nonduality. One Love As a psalm written to the heart of the Spirit, in which the silver veins of dreams, return to dwell in the turning seasons of the year, and to reveal again that what matters the most, in our search for the soul, are not only the invisible patterns of grace and the promises they portend, but at last the unforgettable ways, in which they mature into what is real, drench with their light the weft of our world, and thus lend their life to the one heart that breathes inside us all. The New Art of Dreams The last light of day settles itself, upon the peaks of the distant mountain range. It is evening and sundown, dusk. The lost papers of Prospero, the legendary books, have each been cast away, or else have been turned already, into flame. Because the magician, is one who has learned to shift his shape in dreams, who has seized the secret thread of prayer, and so has the power to be, to breathe, and even to wield, in the art of dream. There is one invisible who saunters through the caverns of our mind; one who wanders without rest, a ceaseless wayfarer on the road of grace, into the prisms and the hollows, where no evil can ever appear; and where we ought to know, that all it really takes, for this one and this friend, to enter in and to begin his work, is merely to keep always in ourselves, an open door. So Prospero, the magician of the isle, stands and utters still, his prayers that travel like leaves in the autumn on the wind, along invisible roads etched in the skies. Dreams unreckoned float upon the breeze; come leafing out into a silver-bright green, from the tips of tangled arms, and the far-spanning trees in spring. Dreams which yield fruit without number, to each of us, as we will again learn to become the conspirators, and the co-creators, of all things new, in this New Art of Dreams. Thus we shall learn to plant tirelessly and forever, into the fecund earth, our mystically flowering seeds; and to hearken to the untrammeled song of birds, steady in the evening’s filtering light, chanting in transparency, their spells and their incantations, which are like the reminder of a new day, and a presage of the sublime. To think, that for ages upon ages, there have been thoughts laced through the depths of the sea. For as every magician knows, there is always already, an embodied future, to each present dream…