Old News
By Georgina Johnson
"Fear", you said, "is in you."
Fear like grief, like longing,
Like a lust.
Fear like a butterfly's hour,
a fountain of light-
the edge of unknowing.
Fear - the space before
Surrender.
Opening now, can I open?
finding comfort
In depth?
High up, on upper floors
Gathering torn scraps
Of composition - the music
That vibrates somehow
In our creation.
A good soul comes here,
Telling of essence -
How it can only attract.
Where will we be attracted,
my beauty?
In apprehending roots
Of moments constantly lost?
In the wail of tear-drops for the ocean?
In the blind wisdom
Of Creative Unfolding?
Or in a single cell
On the upper lip
That consumes space to sense
The miracle of touch?
When the heart splits into
Ribbons of silver.
Flying into darkness
And disolving in wonderful nothing;
When the mother bear embraces
Herself;
When the lover bonds
With everyone;
When rain falls
(between, no, within the drops);
When the clock stops
And listens
To silence easily pulling
Time to the blissful vacuum
of eternity;
When eyes meet
In pure perception,
When the scent that follows you
Diffuses.
When we allign like beams of light,
When you are gone,
Lost in structure.
Adoring then I find you here
In the space between naval and neck,
In my fingers,
quietly courting the waves
That divide future and past.
Unaccusing
miracle to exist.
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