+++++++++++++Imagine, if you will this split-minute, still-
frame moment of time,
feel it on the fringe
of your skin,
sense it within +++++++++++++then
reduce it till
it is no more than a breath,
a blink, a beat,
a photon blast
at sunlit speed! +++++++++++++next
slow it down,
spread it out and let
it melt the defining lines
that separate self from the time
of perpetual planetary expanse
+++++++++++++and now return
to the moment we are in,
perceive the flow
without and within, know–
Are we not changed
from an instant ago?
(To hear the Blacksmith Tree Frog please press play)
— The day prior to a New Moon compels total abandonment and complete surrender,
a release from all fears; by becoming an empty vessel, we can be reborn in purity —
The Shaman, dressed in his intricate fine-thread garb, has lit the
sacred flames ensconced within the ornamental shrine, festooned
in floral garlands and feathery plumes, around which they all gather,
chanting mantras and prayers, echoing his verse; later he reads
to them from the ancient texts, his sacramental words.
It is a ceremony of separation — one of death and birth,
of creation and destruction, of mothers and sons, of water and stone.
— And out of the primeval murk he was born, the strands
that once connected them shorn, as man arises from earth —
In attendance is the Seeker, who sways hypnotic to the reverberate
thumps and rings, enchanted at the ritualistic flourishes of his Master’s
lashes of sacred waters, at the intoxicating scents of mystic incense.
He knows that this ceremony is as much for himself as it is for them all,
for tonight, he has shed his doubt, arriving prepared to emerge.
Abruptly, he feels a split, the is a severance, and one by one, like strings
being snipped, the Shaman’s words begin to lose all meaning and sense.
— Bearing down in a grassy field near a passing creek, a mother
delivers her newborn son, cutting the umbilical cord with her teeth —
Opening his eyes he finds that they have all gone. He is alone in a forest clearing,
a passage, surrounded by bog, the sounds he is hearing now like so many drums
are the tympanic mating calls of male blacksmith tree frogs resonating across
the water. Where once was a fire-lit altar, he sees a patch of grassy stalks
jutting from the murk, the scents are of night-blooms, of algae, of damp.
It is done, the cycle is complete. Cleansed and unbound from his corporal and
temporal ties, he must forge a new path of unification. But for now, he must rest.