” Imagination is tne inner shaping of invisible power.” Ivan Illich
Imagination like a flower,
A strange flower.
Anenome-like or peony-like, a poppy
dressed, in myriad red petals, as
the not yet dawn appears in silence, her
field extends beyond the limit of my nature.
Her blackened center like an eye
that sees things through. Right
here, right now , this
intimate world of mine, always
happening. Like space
held close, and warm in the palm of your hands,
hidden, are the myriad flowers, abiding
in the nooks and crannies of rocks, and my garden. The
flower is a vessel innately attuned to seed, warmth, soil and moisture.
Light and fragile, each morning a
rite of passage. Today
wearing a top-knot of lavender, she
is thorny, a thistle, a laughing creature.
I imagine this laughter. . . echoing. Like
fine music— echo, echo, echo. I
hear in the distance, her delicate
whisper, her fingers softly kneading flowers, embracing,
This body of the great embrace untouched by
the vagaries of the world, a land
of dream forgotten, an earthly
paradise, a still point through which the whole earth moves,
dropping below our doubt or fear and rest before beginnings and ends.