This is the journey,
that is no journey,
no Odysseus returning to Ithaca
from silence to silence it goes,
no reason, just is,
moving with the
unyielding arrow of time,
entropic, dependent, but resistant,
cutting a path as I go,
in that narrow, luminous corridor,
towards the Lichtung,
in a brief crack of light,
and knowing what awaits
before birth, after death.

I am in a line, in a rotation,
swivelling but moving ever
as time, as space, in body,
tuned to the earth, from the
dust from whence I came,
atoms moving in and out,
made of everything not human,
as the flesh of the world.

This is the journey that’s not
there and back again but
taking me from nothing to
something, to disintegration,
to lost and looking,
and all I have is a place,
some anchors, a life aware,
a sharing of creatures in
their creatureliness, trying
to find their own way home,
not eternal, but enough,
a finite life as finite.

 

7/6/2026