Beyond the Rain

18 Nov


A real love letter is made of insight, understanding, and compassion. Otherwise it’s not a love letter. A true love letter can produce a transformation in the other person, and therefore in the world. But before it produces a transformation in the other person, it has to produce a transformation within us. Some letters may take the whole of our lifetime to write. ― Thích Nhất Hạnh

My breath carries a feather of knowing

upon its current, a tiny red remige

that still wants for growing.

From the root along the vane

it whispers,

We must live inside the Love.

My half conscious companion

has curiosity over coffee,

–What do you mean?

his thoughts thirst

like wintering window ledge botanicals

leaning long toward

the pale four o’clock sun.


Inside the Love? I say,

touching the top of his trembling.

Love, is the moted sun

in which the marmalade cat lies

half dreaming.

Love, is the knotted hammock’s

surest swinging.

Love, too is the icy white

lavender towel

the forehead’s scented savasana crown

like a Lazarene command,

compressing enlightened layers of being

backward into the inner eye.

Love is the tug of my long lock,

a plaything rapt round

your finger.

Living inside the Love

has changed my eyes

in equal measure with

their lines of singing skin.

A deeper London blue,

praises a preciousness

far from the reach of

impermeable youth.

One shouldn’t wait to

be in this Love, I say.

This present.

This here.

This now.

One should not be frightened of finding

that it peels the rind of self supposing

so that the webbed pith of soul lies naked,

a soft velvety skin of bitter white

its holdings so sweet,

so shiny,

so real,

its ripeness calls out

from under the lace of who we thought we were.

Inviting all souls to taste

of this now.

this here.

this me.

this us.

this we.

This Love is everywhere, I say.

And in everything.

I am the Love,

covered in the grey of walking

between the worlds

of the living and the dreading.

That which IS self suffuses.


His heart whispers

through eyes like empty cars

at the end of a carnival ride

gone much too short and much too fast,

door flung open,

rail lights blinking,

red tickets fluttering

across a worn grass path.


His eyes trace the path back

into the dark forest,

where  yellow brick cannot shine.

The newspaper he holds has headlines

clearer from this distance

and sweeter with orange juice.


Beyond the green curtain

my beloved,

one finds Love

in a click

of ruby red heels,

over the bow of rain,

within the curling banner of birds,

showing the soul’s way.

Love has been waiting for me there


in a blue rose calico apron

holding a light

at the front door

of Home.

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