it has been a long journey, winding among hills, blue-green and yellow.
the whole of it, viewed from the very beginning, a whole round world,
became the ground from which I took my first step, and from there
the glimpse of the whole, new, other-centred world the next, and so on…
there was uncanny confidence at first – i scarcely trusted it –
as if i knew already the foreign trees, the scented earth, the sky,
and knew also the ethereal people who approached me there.
“laugh,” they said, “be mirthful!” so i was, as if i knew them well.
but then there was the tearing sound i felt rather than heard:
almost a pain it was, as when a seedcoat ruptures for its root,
and from my breastbone… o ye angels… was a sword withdrawn?
and did i bleed? i did! o ye angels, yes, indeed, i did!
i bled my history, my soul’s story, my journey it was i bled.
down my veins the pale skies’ power flowed and flowered a further million
following, no-longer-foreign, many-peopled skies. the sky-petalled suns,
the mysterious, clouded moons, the long cold draught of myriad-starrèd skies!
oh, i bled grief – alas! a loss! a lack! – i bled great snaking wreaths of coiling fear.
oh, i stumbled, numbed and clumsy, and i blindly – almost plummeting, and yet
though the mist fell, though the view faded, thought the night itself failed –
yet i moved or else was moved, or else the world it was that moved,
moved through me, or i through it, or neither moved at all,
each being still, both sampling successive relativities, mine to its, its to mine.
spiraling we climb; we spiraling soar, we fall spiraling. all power is vortex.
love sends us out spinning, we spin, love calls us spinning home.