Three Degrees Of Freedom
The sound of an old harmonica playing
whistles up the wind from wood-
churned paths instructing me not to
fear the joy of contemplation. Myrrh,
Tansy, Violets, the black cloth of earth
you loved cover me with the stain of
of your skin; the leap of faith, the leap
of trust. Blue residue under the protective
arc of a Rowan Tree clings like the scent
of wet fog as tranquility precipitates the
effects of moonlight radiant with memory.
Everything we've touched has burned
away. Only when I close my eyes to
the material world is when I see the
invincibility of a broken branch. So, I
walk and follow the path giving myself
up to God wondering if he will forsake me
for another more worthy, slowly letting the
pain flow out of me along with a rivulet
of purifying sweat. I sculpt what's missing
in my blindness and let your voice revolve
around me in the darkness. Between words,
between the lines of what is permissible
and plausible, I begin to understand the
three degrees of freedom. Spirit enters us
through death, discipline and grief one beautiful
cell at a time.
