This poem was written before an awesome view of creation; the kind of vision which makes one feel one's true significance (or insignificance).

I have come to my life as the dreamed.
I must become the dreamer.

Waking beyond the dream . . .
mountains and seas, tears and laughter,
this body of stars.

I have brought with me a little book,
The Imitation of Christ by Thomas A Kempis -- but I do not read.

Evening approaches. Words rise and settle like mist in the searching heart . . . the bark at my back, holy sunlight making shadows in the shadow world. The distance of the human heart is revealed, so far removed from the thunderous gratitude driven like a terrible wind against the only door.

Listen, if you will, to my plagiarism of experience. Abandon yourself in the tearing, step through your circle of disbelief and become the answer.

The bead of sweat on my forehead wishes to say more, but the tufted Blue Jay squawks and chooses another branch, unimpressed.

I sit in the fading sunlight, scribbling to no one's advantage, unless in some strange way my own, seeking to love this moment without knowledge or naming -- like a man in silent prayer, straddling the edge of a beautiful and profound book, the edge of a world, thinking, not thinking, waiting for the voices to wane.

Where does Life originate? In the inevitable soil of dreams? In nameless ecstasy?

Weary of the battle between the Good and Evil within me, I haven't the hubris to map out a better world. I say let the heart cry its song unhindered; our blood and flesh the proof of our sincerity -- a gift returned, nonetheless, in dignity.

This is and isn't our world.

Shadows grow among the stately pines,
and I remember other days.

Yesterday I was a boy. And although it may be that his love is the hope of all my tomorrows, today let me be a man.

Where does love originate? In earth? In trees? In dreams?

Tired of being less than I am, I rise, stretching, and gaze across the far horizon -- the constellations flowing upon the mirror of my consciousness.

Must I write my own Imitation,
my place within the setting sun,
my steps, blessed by the unexpected.

A quarter mile away happy laughter pierces my regard.

Amen, my brothers. Amen, my sisters.
Amen, my God . . .

You alone know what I would give.