February
The bony moon

It and I
reflecting

Once again
I walk the wind
My footprints
heading Westward

A slower walk
shorter stride
longer periods
of stillness

The night air is thin
Making it thick
with voices

Absent ones
are present

Looking down
from the stars

The moon below
the moon above,
waiting to be born

Once again I walk the wind

This time,
Grandmother's hand
points the way

The moon that lights my path
also shines upon my backtrail

Roads that spiral to the east

On the Eastern Road
I was Golden Ruled
Sunday Schooled
and often Bible belted

Episcopalian mother
with a creed
that guaranteed
a son of God
be born of rebellion

But, Grandmother's hand
spoke different

I've always remembered
Grandmother's
brown, crinkled,
tissue paper
hand

In my teens
I found myself
Tao'd
and endowed
to turn O's
into Q's

but cannot tell you
what difference it makes

Farther along
the Eastern Road,
I drowned
in the moon
of Zen

and learned
that even I
could do the math
of Advaita

but, I've always remembered
Grandmother's hand

brown, crinkled,
tissue paper

Tales of Beings
that live
anywhere...

Here
Between us

of a world
beneath this world

stories
fantastic
That seemed far more real
than the world
beyond her lap

The Eastern Path ends
once again in the Center

Back to the heart

It is here
that I take hold
of Grandmother's hand

It is here
where I see
Grandmother's mother

Her hair braided
and wrapped
eight times

Voices are speaking tonight

With all of the knowledge
gathered along
the Eastern Road,
no lesson stands out more
than the knowing
that Intelligence
is stupid

Intuition
is always smarter
than Intellect

So, With no answers to seek
With no questions to ask

Knowing the path
is mine alone
and that
I am
my path

I must follow
that which speaks
to my heart

and walk
the Western Road
holding Grandmother's hand


***