By Timothy P McLaughlin
Here, in the wild, where there’s almost no chance
of another human stopping through,
where there’s no hopping round
patterns of perception or acceptance,
my little cells uncoil like June cactus buds,
my ticking brain unwinds to silence,
my chest splits to let my heart out for a walk:
things become the softness they rightly are.
This wall of mountain, with no edges, holds me.
This rock in my palm also wears a delicate skin.
The air and the angels spread their silken touch
over all of this place: lighter than mist, finer than feathers.
Whatever you have suffered,
whatever low roads you have trod,
this is where you must stop and be broken
open in rich contradiction
savoring the deep peace possible now,
longing for the untold freedom of hereafter.