Once a gulf detaches
morning skies from midnight oceans,
the BrightWind of Song frees,
sets sail without a whisper,
without a protest.
And as this CloudOcean of anywhere
wends its way through the expanding stillness,
a gray yellow radiance rises over fields
where growers of knowledge
harvest the fruits of Glory Trees.
Prophetic candles arise and illume
dimming any sharp edges,
reflecting tenderness,
bridging the gap between archaic visions
and untried unspoiled inklings.
Darkness then melts away
revealing spectacles of onlookers,
Platonic shadows,
their unconscious inventors
flush with unrecognizable yet brilliant untried paradigms.
And all at once,
nearly disembodied
though safely grounded,
fully rested, with breath,
now an impasse momentous and anonymous:
hail to the bards:
for abandoning enigmas,
for desisting distrust
toasting vastness
and heartening possibilities,
for unfurling flags of continued flux
as the only worthy path remaining,
before skins swap,
and positions harden and ossify
signifying the archaic
primitive split dichotomy
of up
or down.