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littlebird
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i've rolled up this mountain before
with my shoulder snug
'gainst some despised granite burden.
this time it's the nightmares of childhood --
imprint of fists on bone and brain.
last trip was dad's cancerous lung.
next climb will be the unfinishable list of things to do
which nags like a bitter lover.
there's always a Sysyphean something to carry.
and then i fall down,
and start over.
countless times i've pushed
wanting only for the pushing to end,
waiting only for fixable me to be finally perfected.
but then i heard it...
the whisper of the rock,
which yielded this koan:
how are peak and valley one and the same?
then i saw the strangeness of my assumption
that all this repetition was to get somewhere
now,
the sweet weight of each stone
with its constant opposition
calls me to notice --
blood tumbling through limbs
dirt skittering underfoot
air flying into my mouth
what it is to be alive
now,
there is no choice but to see --
falcons above the tree line
beetles in the brush
sky, sand, grass, stars
what it is to be happy
there is no choice but to know --
that the invisible string of life that threads each leaf
and runs through each river,
and pierces the eye of the robin,
also binds me to my stone...
which now i carry, precious as my life
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060928
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