But surely there is wonder. And many will come and fall and rise again with chins held high. Quietly the world will turn and thought would follow them and become them. So what of the patient ones who wait in the corners and along the edges? Who would come for them? Or will they spend eternity waiting for the moment that became another and another too soon? The conscious cosmic mutt scratches at the door of unknown certainties, howls at a moon soaked in spirit, dripping its silver sweat onto earth.
It is not as others but is of others with its snout in the ground, ears to the stars, listening to ancient ones, yelping the word of god. The tree understands and the waters and the turtle resting in the shadow of that tree. The man does not and wails for his pain but leaves not his place at the top of the hill with his foot caught in an old trap of his own making. He clutches his truth, hiding from choice.
The buttercups have died under tired weight, yet tiny blossoms beg from beneath the dirt, forgiving. Sanguine sunsets seduce barely noticed. You are not alone. The man does not believe and cries, surrounded by love that cannot touch him for his heart is not willing, captive of a mind torched by lies. But still the patriot sun rises yet again and warms his hard face and holds to its promise.
There is nothing beneath your skin that does not yearn to be with the other. No fear is too great. No action too strong. No time too enduring. Yet you sit invisible to all you know. To the secrets excreted in dreams, in sadness and in joy, in the detail of leaves passed unseen. Peep from one eye then the other lest the windows stay shut and dust gathers so deep in corners you cannot breathe. How bright those corners can be!
Three crows gather on a mountain behind the sun, ready to take you back to the place forgotten by life. We will be there as you please, when you have remembered the wonder and what you have been here. These sorry trials will be your victory though old misers deny their worth. To have lived. And what was done through the years to know it? Do not listen but to cherry blossoms birthing in spring and perfect snow falling on darkened lakes and all that is of life and its goodness. You are as you should be, holding the key tight. Open.
You have not been forgotten. It is but for you to remember.