To Rest

By Roy Dean Doughty
Written 5/30/08

In the evening, the sun, falling into hazy
Yellows and lavenders, its last lights parsed
By the hushed chatterings of big sycamore
Leaves, throws our shadows eastward
Toward a dawn we may or may not
Wake to see. We find our identities
Blurring with a particular level of
Consciousness, not that of any one being
Or entity, but that of a euphonious
Aggregate, a many-manyness shuffling
Gently through the trees. That inhospitable
Plateau, so high, so arid, of the merely human,
With its histories of tight smiles, which speak of
Sparse vegetation and mechanical fatalities,
Is submersed in deeper, more primordial empathies.
The sun, the colors, the shifting,
Whispering leaves, have successfully
Completed their abortifacient activities,
And the incomplete one is drawn back,
Not merely to the womb, but to the instant
Before conception, where the path in is the path
Down, down amid calamitous waves,
Upon whose murderous sarcasms,
The divine survivor walks. This he, this she,
Is the light, the resplendent light of the world.
Now the calm of evening, the slight breeze stirring
The trees, tell us that we, too, have survived
The shipwreck of another day, and that mundanely,
Miraculously, we walk on water again,
To the sweet haven of our waiting beds.

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