Who should I pray to today?
So many Gods, so much to do,
should I assign a task to each,
and take the day off for myself?

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Gratitude wore a beautiful gown for me
today.

She dressed as a perfect persimmon
ripening in the glazed bowl on my table,
translucent color and depth,
yellow, shading to orange to red.
All of them together, and in between.

She has always been like that,
without beauty she can’t be known.
To be seen is all she has ever asked.

She uses the same magic on
every beautiful thing in sight.

To my eye she seems especially
fond of Autumn and sunsets,
but, as they say, it is all in the
Eye of the Beholder.

In November
the fog seems determined
to draw a veil over the valley,
and steal dawn from the Sun,
to hide Autumn’s glorious display.
It meets in utter failure, of course.
When stealing beauty, that is what you get.

Each morning’s fog has an
aspect unique, exquisite, mysterious.
Sometimes it creeps like a cat stalking,
or swirls in, white and cold, sculpting
the trees into crystalline chandeliers.
Or, like an ingenue descending the stairs,
with white, opaque, petticoats of mist.

God is a completely unnecessary idea, no concept is needed for Reality, for the energy and mystery; the obvious actuality of Existence that is the source of All that is.
Religion and spirituality are useful enough as rudimentary indicators, pointers, if you will, to what is underlying and emanating as life, itself, not “my” life but that in which life appears and disappears. Beyond that, as history can abundantly demonstrate, it can be counterproductive, even extremely destructive, to the full expression of that perfect subtle, indestructible, permanent, substratum that is the REAL. As soon as it is referred to it is gone.
Words are useless, but all we have, in this realm, to indicate, to turn the view inward to the perceiver, or, should I say perceiving, as, once this is realized, there can be no such a thing part from “That”. Undivided and indivisible. Full stop!

I Am falling in my own forest.
Each leaf on every branch is me.

Red, orange, yellow swirling in
myriad shades, without repeat.

The same light once curled atomic,
waiting to radiate from the Sun,
before the rainbow divide
becomes the color in every leaf.

Drifting through the air, each
making a pattern, to and fro,
like bright spinning hulls
in the sky, never one,
in aeons of time, the same,
every last one unique.

No one will remember a single leaf.

Unforgotten is the Fall.

I Am alone, falling to the ground.

Snowflakes are falling on my upturned face.
Night’s a black ocean, crossed by tiny white sails
A pattern’s in each, like intricate lace.
Who is weaving such Byzantine detail?

Night’s a black ocean, crossed by tiny white sails
Mathematic precision seems at play.
Who is weaving such Byzantine detail?
A choreography, a perfect ballet!

Mathematic precision seems at play.
A flawless glissade, pirouettes the night.
A choreography, a perfect ballet!
A play of darkness dancing with light.

A flawless glissade, pirouettes the night
A pattern’s in each, like intricate lace.
A play of darkness dancing with light.
Snowflakes are falling on my upturned face.