Half-stirring in sleep, a sound
Of a birdcall as elaborate as brocade,
as clear as a bell fills the silence within
Is the birdsong within me?
Or am I enveloped within its sound?
Or are we both as ripples
within a larger universal being?
Before I can pause or consider,
my eyes open to the morning,
wall, window frame, bookshelf appear.
The armor of me clunks back in place:
the ball and chain of my name anchors me,
the weight of the body makes everything else solid too.
The little bird is far away now,
I am heavy, I am apart, I am running late.
In a few moments, I forget
when the birdcall and me,
were dancing as one in wordless ecstasy.
In a few hours, I even begin to believe,
this solid life is mostly pleasant enough.
And set about fixing the other parts.
Hoping to then feel ‘happy’.
In my rush to reach happy, it never strikes me
to ask what happy would feel like when I found it?
Could it be that I fill my days seeking that empty moment
when my birdsong and me were alone in a boundless sky?