My once crafted poem
The Soul, Whence and Whither?[1]
Ended thusly:
I stood that day
In the palisades
One dreaming eye removed.
But I left that hillside wood
complete
In a current deep and still.
Now when I ask my question—
“The soul: whence and whither?”
I go back mentally.
And my soul will drink from the
crest of its nest
In the depths of the pooling
sea.
Its musing adrift or sunken
Its message slightly drunken
Clearly, Dreaming Eye looked
Homeward, ever bewildered
For how can a current run
Still?—deep, for sure, but
still?
Not motionless, but “yet”—
Ah, a little bird told me;
(One of many birdy friends)
Reminded me, “mentally”
There, in my knowledge base
A sub rosa knowing from
Sufi days of yore, before
Time stood still, it—
(Didn’t exist, still doesn’t.)
Trickster time—beckons
From mindful will on land
Free will remains, forming
Reforming in air and sea
Within Palisades, complete.
Now aflight, it left its nest
Albeit submerged—all’s well.
