the curtains moving gently in the breeze,
listening to the spontaneous liveliness
of the fountain whose joyful drops
the sunlight plays with as they fall;
catching the scent of a rose
which comes and goes to the nostrils
as if it has its own intentions;
watching the sunlight moving round
the courtyard garden;
remembering with an inward stirring,
it’s the earth which moves…
words passing through the mind;
in this golden stillness, all things
are a metaphor for all else;
it’s beyond the tender tying
into lines of poetry;
just a light touch, these words;
nothing to prove; no-one to convince;
more like a hand unfolded towards life,
an acknowledgement;
as when you join the dervishes in turning,
and as the mind-free centre grows more strong,
more established (for this centre holds) ,
the thoughts spin off…
the poem too, spins off:
one arm upward which remembers,
palm open to receive in wonder;
one arm outward, palm open, offering all to all;
take it, while it’s warm with life.

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