The Flood

The water floods outwards, in a loving reach. The waters become shallow and the pace slows. If I go beyond my natural path, my water dries out. If I do too little, the river narrows, and the focus is strong and volatile.

My true potential is neither generous nor seizing.

Always I remember, there is no object to my love. The object is also flowing forth. In the river of your eyes I can know my own consecration. Yet our communion is meaningless unless we walk together somewhere new.

One object of love is too narrow a channel, which knows no entity. For to possess one intention is finitude. All objects of love are too wide a course, for love knows no urgency. Infinity is only in our graceful movement.

In the limitless step. In the confounding mystery, which lives in time.

I imagine how afraid they were, seeing death before them. In the place where the river is no longer ours to know. I imagine how they wept, knowing one possibility of life was ending. Or how they felt in life, when it had already ended in another way. When life’s door closed. But here I am. Life is open. I swim at the edge of my life, and today I am here to know this life. knowing no limit. knowing no finitude. contempt belongs nowhere in this life, nor repression nor excess. only love. in today’s light. Only light.

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Why did I long for communion? A million doves or more, yet once more at your door. Knocking the metal handle, answering your call. A stall no longer standing, amongst the greying hay. The stallion gallops forward, just to greet you again. Toward the night’s mystery, where lips are pink and red. The roses are pale and blue. To the next island, where the waves are crystal blue.

And the sun shines. As it did now. The prairie leading to another meadow, in the forest. As it does now.

And we rustle in the yellow dandelions, as we do now. Rustling in the river, as we are now.

I simply let go, swimming to the edge of the horizon. I am rejuvenated here.