It is not
Hawaii much though
I wish it
could be romance
and soft ocean
breezes. It is
not coconut, or
pineapple. But it
does take odd
forms of shape-shifting
in the pacific
islands of mythical
love and fantasy
archipelago-ing my soul.
No, it is
not emotional intimacy,
nor is it
commitment phobia—it
is not insult
or injury or
any such wishful
thinking. It is
sitting. It is
the difficult waiting.
A secret inaudible
whisper worth sitting
and waiting for
until it is
not a secret,
until it is
not sitting or
waiting, until it
is love knowing
its movement, until
it is fearlessly
a passionate love
in every direction.
Until it is
this contradiction, it
is a squall,
brittle twists in
a small mind
of salivating anger,
empty-bellied growling,
muzzled and lusting
to bite into
the calm shifts
of center, now
the present impossible,
always possible forgiveness.
It is compassion.
It is tear-stained
memory, a foreknowledge.
It is belief
without any proof,
not the constant
yelp of fear
from the throats
of lost creatures,
heart-sick of themselves
in a self
plagued universe. It
is a palm
not a fist,
an opening out
not closing in,
a hand holding
its opposite hand,
our inevitable fate,
open unknowable future
present in past
unsayable certain illusions.
It is spirit.
It is physical
action. It is
a difficult daily
practice of breathing,
believing everything hinges
on the delicate
wings of doing
nothing but believing
the breath is
present even in the waves that
may grow large
in the mind
but will wash
over us eventually,
breaking on the
shore of a
soft beach we
may never understand
until one day,
simply we do.
We simply are
the infinite grains
an always eroding
universe of ourselves
until we become
we become we
become we become
a forever ending
of island ideas.
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