Preludes

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Preludes

Poem

The arid spells are a distant memory
Gone the days of skies empty and barren
Or bristling air of all moistness shorn,
When all forward hope was a futility.

No more are clogged the inner doors,
No more collides the haphazard world
Onto the unwary heart most unprepared,
A quiet resonance most subtly grows

To the hidden vasts behind and above.
Not content with my wake now invades
My erstwhile unconscious sleep and dreams
With a lustrous hint of aspiring love.

Who knew an absence could sweet
be, upending the very basis of desire,
What strange lacking fuels this new fire
That flaming sings in itself content.

I who wailed for a fond face drifting
In the course of life currents swift,
Now passively watch worlds swept
By surging purpose in a luminous seeing.

Such are the preludes of my self-unfolding,
A footnote minor on the pages of Becoming.