You might happen upon her

once in a while,

when you’re not looking

when you’re not thinking

and maybe have lost sight of the time,

let go of the little self

and find yourself amongst the trees.

 

In the presence of those ancient beings

the living land

she is at home, at one.

Would it be strange or a surprise

if, when you least expect it,

at the edges of samsaric consciousness

there she is:

waiting for silence and stillness to prevail - when you stop by a knobled old stump

and the vastness between each breath

resonates with the song in your veins

the tangled roots, the animate elements

and devic hinterlands:

a’dance with the water and wafer thin air -

a bird calls...a rustle, and there she is!

Her skin, wrinkly oak bark, twig knuckles

woodsmoke, delphian eyes,

...in the bones and rocks lie evidence;

in the absence of words

they speak.

Finding me is nothing. Find yourself!

 

In a cloak of foliage and sapling moss

hair, iron grey and soft like summer rain

shadow on moving shadow she merges

pixilated, juxtaposed, embedded

so you wonder if it is she

or some figment in your brain.

Just an indentation in the ethers?

A projection of unkempt mind!

 

A hand, solid and firm, grasps your arm

 - shivers up your spine - no-one is there

… but in turning to face that absence

you find your verily self!