Aug 282011

I ride the night-yard's rose bush like a saddle,
Burning to be nearer what shines afar,
And visit all the dreaming stars for marvel,
My rose and I still waking where we are.
All below is lost, I believe in what's above.
Unburied from sleep, I and my heart arose--
As full of feeling as empty of self, they say.
But knowing myself as I know my yard and rose,
I say, "Losing finds all again; there is a way."
Twenty years about both house and bush I've spent;
Twenty years dreaming to the rose-soft summit
Where the sun arises a rose and sets a rose.
Having gone round in love, I return to love;
I wake to see where my rose-dreaming goes.
My compass rose is cunning, her roots are deep.
I dream the dream I need when I dream of sleep.
The self is buried, and its roots are mossed.
Roots are what come of being lost.

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