in the beginning

i start journals, then stop.
keep idea books, then stop
blog, and then get busy.

i don't know how to turn me into words without a template to follow.

 like a sponge i absorb and then convert the gatherings into a simmering stew

are the seasonings mine? is there me in the recipe? or only in the spoon as we eat?


i am not alone
a solitary light-bearer,
 walking amidst a world of which i am not part

that moment with the butterflies -
 flat tire on a mountain road miles from anywhere,
yet unafraid. only golden wings mattered

like all, soon to leave this bardo
yet i've no companion on the path
'though i have shared caresses in flight

words drop into the well like stones
 slowly the waters rise to reflect our thirst

and in the mirrors of infinity
there is the image of myself seeing me
 small, smaller, tiny, wee ...
  no more me