Holding Still: A Poem
Tuesday, November 3rd, 2009
In the amber of a late October,
altered by illness and a mauling from friends, we have come again to London, and come one to the other, in truth, it seems, for the first time in twenty-something years.
These are our days. Above us, white lines from Heathrow streak across the sky and a silver airplane flashes in the tawny sun, its underwing turned gold. Ahead is Christmas. Outside
the bang-blast of fireworks, and the tread of traffic dancing to the drum of what must be done. Not us, not now. In here, our clothes removed, our skin cells open, one to the other, once a day, we practice: love. And the stillness of the season holds us, bathed in something more than kindness.
It was you who led, as male desire is wont to do, erect, unyielding, it cut to our truth. And I who thought of practice: that Buddhist word, that way to be, to being in the place that one is in.
So now we meet each evening to meld the passing and the coming life suspended clothes off, upon a cushioned floor, each time (it seems) anew, each stroke the first, again, in hours that know just what they hold in this, our stilly autumn in these, our golden days. ————- WANT MORE LIKE THIS? Sign up for The Creative Intelligence Blog (and also receive a free e-book on Inspiration Meditation).