Lit up till the brim,
You wave at me
from up above.
Mesmerised,
I wonder,
Do you call
the dazzling
effulgence
your own?
The mortal I,
clutch on to my
words so tight.
Teach me the art
of being empty
to be full.
Dear,
November Moon.
Our desires dream us.
Sacred wishes emerging
from life’s wish
to fulfill itself,
calls out to us
in many forms.
A new day, a blank page,
an empty coffee mug;
every bit of life is
an invitation.
Our lives are canvases
upon which
the greatest artist creates
ephemeral paintings. …
Dear Wise Woman,
Thank you for being there. I feel a tinge of sadness that I had to dim your light. Your forgotten medicine kept simmering seeking flight.
I have searched for you everywhere. In trees and in the ocean, within the verses from the wise ones, in dreamtime and…
