POEM: The Time of Hawks and Foxes
It’s the time of hawks and foxes again.
This one sweeping over the green meadow,
That one skirting the edge of the forest.
It’s an epic adventure we’re on.
Biblical times, prophets and all.
Only this time spared the tyranny of the Church.
Thank rock, stone, moss and mineral.
Thank salamander and snake skin.
Thank beauty and breath.
It’s the time of witches again.
Coming in threes to cast their spells
and to whisper in the breeze,
“Tis time, ’tis time…”
They’re not afraid … maybe the only ones.
They’ve seen this and worse. Oh yes, much worse. “We were here before,” they tell us.
Praise Circe and her lions!
Praise the day and praise the night,
Praise the Moon, our mother clock.
Praise this stench, these bones, this rot.
It’s the time of direct perception again,
No plans will work,
no names or forms suffice.
That knowing beyond reason that frustrates any attempt at containment or control.
Forget it. I haven’t got the words. They don’t exist yet…if ever.
Awake to myself.
Awake to this moment.
Awake to the innocence of being.
Awake to the paradox of my dominion and my irrelevance.
Awake to our need for each other and the Love that weaves us together.
It’s the time of the Aztecs, the Romans, the Atlanteans.
The time of remembering the ends.
The crumbling of temples and totems, the abandonment of buildings on Broadway.
The grasping for something familiar, and not finding it there. But, finding something else instead…
The beginning of something…actually new and old as time.
Remember the ancestors.
Remember the lessons learned.
Remember the folly and the frenzy.
Remember also what endures.
And what cannot be forgotten even when we try.
(April 12, 2020)