In the beginning there was a face
With jugged lines
As if hacked
From a Redwood tree
Then the forehead
From which the stories came
cleared up
And you could see the endless sky
And you could see the forest
As it hugged the flowing waters
Carving their path in the earth
From ice to sea
Then a woman of light
With a cane
Stood up to tell her pain
To the hollow pine of history
And as her light ascended in the air
One little cloud
Came to rest
On the mountaintop.
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I saw myself for what I am and therefore the woman was seen for what she is.
She is my mother, and this seeing releases her from the character that she played in our dream life. I can laugh now. History is indeed empty.
intuitiveflow 