From the room of windows, two yellow butterflies startle morning's yawn with a tango. The rise and fall of black veins give and receive an infinite gift – justice in the macrocosm of existence. How they hover in divine movement! Yes, yellow seems to be the way this time.
They push the slightest breeze towards attention. Why does their dance need wings? Help me with this body. Hungry questions beget the wreckage of storm-torn trees upon endless beaches one must visit from time to time.
The dilemma paces between the insignificance of the physical form and the spiritual wavelength emitted and recognized in another. Only a few have made themselves mystically known within my vibration. Fewer still match the unsayable steps in this unicursal labyrinth. And there is one who sees me, even without eyes.
So then, what matter is the body? If the height of inner honesty and oneness can be recognized without having touched my living barrier, then what purpose shapes the sloping shoulders or moves the watery lips towards another? Which conception asks for the other?
The spiritual confluence of cardinals and questions and trips to the river just to see, is a fuel to my constant flame. Winged Beings beware.
climb the sunbeam's prayer -
an uncollected hallelujah remains