the white heron
standing so still, dignity of posture-
so like the yogis in our hall
knowing somehow
To draw ourselves back-back into a center of safety-
consumed solely by the center of our own flames.

Burning of the old -- the old stories
wishes, fears, desires;
your own voice calling to yourself,
only heard by yourself
back, back from the brink of the remembering
to this place where the white heron stands.
Breath- breathing you.

Untouched, by a shredded past,
an uncomprehensible future;
resting like the white heron
only the dignity of the posture remains
blessed by the faculties of our senses
knowing somehow there is no other world,
than this, simply this.

There is this small point, infinite point
where the world divides.

one road --
leading back, back into the flames of becoming
this voice speaking too quickly --
desperately searching through the crowded years
where life's hopes - fears;
can be played
in this game of winning and probably losing
grasping tightly , capturing, imprisoning,
keeping it for all of... time.

And then there's this other path---old path
caught in the miracle of ordinariness,
bewilderment ---
the price of the sand slipping through our fingers..
knowing somehow that you have to surrender-
leaving behind the hopes and fears in the grasping,
resting nowhere -- falling on your knees;
knowing somehow that the heart knows its way from here- on.