Why does the mind’s eye not see the future?
Does a fog of mystery covering our soul’s
intentionally obscure visions of tomorrow?
I am aware of the squirrels rustling the dead
leaves beneath the thorny rose bush in the
light of the moon? Cold and exposed, patiently
waiting for the season of bloom.
My garden once alive lies still, a hint of
summers perfume lingers in the fall air. Now
cradled in the arms of Mother Earth, waiting
for its new birth.
I think of the now, disease and war a threat to
fallow soil, will the power of war come to us
once more? Would the human intellect be able
to cope with the naked landscape of truth?
Only in lucid dreams do I find tomorrow, a golden
glow of the future. The seasons will change, Will
I see the orange lilies show their tinted face; the
snowball bush bud; will they all still know me.
Only the spirit knows the endless land beyond
tomorrow, will I no longer be? A new season, new
life, one where choices can be made, a prisoner to
the past, or will I be free.
Spikes of the moon now fall upon the coatless oak
tree; nothing has ever belonged to me, nature, and
my life. I will be gone I will be free; I will be in the world afar.
Perfection with a new birth
Tranquility with a new birth
Infinity comes with a new birth
Why is the mind’s eye blind to the acceptance of
just living for today?