Horizontal Eight

An owl swoops across gradient violet light. It perches in the old oak and calls out over frosted roofs and woodsmoke. I feel its feminine presence in my shoulders and down my spine. Yet also, the masculine power of presence takes my breath.

An awareness rises of the heft required to bear the opposites of divine opposites.

Sunlight breaks to highlight the transfiguration of eros into the immortal prism that it is. Maybe I cannot do this, beloved. Maybe I am the fool on the cliff, about to step off, barely feeling the tug to hold. Cannot it not be true that as above so is below? Fall or fly? Sink or swim?

Two bald eagles fly in a Lemniscate fashion over the flooded river bank, one inhaling as the other exhales. In a dream, you wake, walk out of the bedroom, and lean over me working at my desk – a soft kiss on the neck and we fall all over again. Tell me again why this is a dream? New tarot liquifying all the ground on which I stand.

The eternity of rhythm. Concentration without effort. Silence without desires. How to calm these waters remains a mystery I am not allowed to understand. I drink of the silence and still, I do not know a thing.