How would you not trip, falling
into paradise every second? When
the sky times with the music of
an old man with the same soul and
the ocean is awash with contemplation
for every human begotten. The peace is
always in grasp, but for the cascading mind
and its landslides destroying infrastructure,
claiming the docks to cut us back off, ending
the industries of sheer monetizing necessity.
Nature shrugging her large lovely shoulders
and the rocks come tumbling down, with the walls of
Jericho and the sleeping volcanoes of Alaskan solitudes.
The winds strong and breathtaking, a robber of wonder.
You surrender to the uncontrolled, then grow restless and
restive with your lungs and hands and plans. She can
leave her preoccupations in the room and he can take
everything out of his pockets. The Holy Spirit seeks an
entry to every turning back and bent head, inner murmur
of instability, to ride these waves charged full of
surrender and laughter, appreciative of sunshine and the
cold roar of nighttime. Shake the beauty on your sunshine
sent shower of glimmer and human warmth, over cold
space alienation, with backstreet country oceans of fairy
tale uncommon culture. How hard is it to find this pleasure?
Not at all hard. Not at all. That spirit constantly urgently,
turning, whipping your head in the wind, will you but look
there where you are now pointed? Paradise in every puddle.