A poem about a poem writing itself?
Or a book that entered after a long hibernation –
so proud of itself completely dressed for the occasion.
That book –
that had been on my shelf of awareness.
Happenings and interpretations .
All the chapters had written themselves as decades of forethought –
collected learnings.

I’m so happy to be remembering the midnight entrance…a grand entrance of all the actors.
In this case …the arm – the hand – the pen and paper
and the breath that held waiting for space enough to place itself.

A blowing wind tore into my room
and turned over my bed
and threw me out.
I saw the dawn and the pages
and read them as if devouring a banquet of dreams.

It told the story of an Evolutionary.
How on momentary winds of choice-less choices
A life had been constructed.
How trust was my Karmic grace –
and how it mingled into life’s stormy and miraculous sea.
How there was nothing there but one continual trust –
in an inner voice –
that drowned out all the others.
The book is about stumbling in the dark that is actually light …
and how .. as the light began to know itself in wisdom
and learned to understand that darkness is a gift ..
It held in it all the potential for inspiration to carry you away –
and throw you out of bed.
And make a book.