Limintaur
Labyrinths
The
sand beckons,
to
this very spot
wear my stick finds the grooves that
are
laying just beneath the fine layer of glistening ground crystal.
I
must breath into your emerging,
only
to find that I missed your spot in the corner.
My
feet erase my mistake and I notice that it is all a part of just being.
I
begin again and your spirals emerge to the north.
I
am timid and hide my pleasure
as
if no one will notice,
hiding
in the whispers of the wind, waiting . . .
until
the afternoon,
where
sumo wrestling finds me once again
harkening
to the spirals that are emerging from beneath the surface.
Together,
we
draw the seven circles
and she walks in, despite the wind,
and
stays on her path,
cauldron
appears beneath her feet
as she walks the four directions
and
sees herself in the present moment of her past,
the
house upon the hill.
She
emerges and takes my hat
so
that the wind can buffet me,
cleanse
me.
I
am a knife, a single blade.
I
am falcon, buzzard, eagle, sparrow,
as
I cut through the wind.
I
am bones walking the night of day.
It
is effortless to find my place,
my feet, my legs, my pelvis, my ribs,
my
heart, and the skull of my brain.
We
sit in the dunes giggling through our tears.
and
the others come, laughing and wind swept.
They
ask if we had a nice sit,
And
we look deeply into the eyes of our experience.
We
stand arm in arm and watch then leap into the labyrinth,
finding
their way, their embrace,
we
have done well, in raising the children.
We
tumble home,
full,
following
the Minotaur of Limintaur Beach.
October
5, 1997
Lea
Goode-Harris©