The moment, a skipping stone, sinks in my mirrored sight,
Even before I can watch how it danced.
My eyes create echoes and meanings to slow its flight;
Captured, it dies like a quantum un-chanced.

The softest of breaths blows and pushes the veil-ed wall;
Tangled and tripping, my feet fail the edge.
Imago and self are divided and start to fall,
Split by infinity's tenuous wedge.

Step silently under the whisper-leaf canopy,
Watch the red road disappear 'round the bend.
No soul has beheld this lost dream for eternity:
Ripples roll outward, the path has no end.

The last man to tread here wore beads in his feathered hair,
Walked in the green light with god-knowing eyes.
He feared not to wander where wolves had their secret lair-
Empty, he cursed no dark, begged no sun's rise.

Did he have a life that compressed all his sacred space,
Choking until he escaped to the woods?
Or knew he some balance, some well-worn and perfect pace,
Holding him safe from the musts and the shoulds?

Or is there no safety within the fierce universe,
Buddha alone a way out of the trap?
An alternate peace as the body and beat immerse,
Holding the line without compass or map.

So walk with some reverence, loosen your best-laid-plans,
Shake out the dust from your ancestral cloak.
The answer we seek lies beyond what cold logic spans,
Echoing truths that our inner hearts spoke.

--Megan Morris, meikundayo@yahoo.com