The Constant Pilgrim

It started with mystery;
it always does, called out
of my dreams by the fog-piercing
rays of earliest light stirring
the layers of mist dust sky river,
kaleidoscope greeting of gold
rose and amethyst-colored
music, and the muted rustle of
resettling geese; I intook
the outflowing perfume
of night scents, distilled
and released, redolent of hay,
decay, promise; life stood
at the edge between summer
and fall, drenched in the gifts
of farewell and welcome. Still,
on the bridge, I breathed myself
into all that, the all I am part of,
and then there was movement
upriver, distant and haze-softened,
as though a piece of land had dislodged
from the bank with sentient intention
to cross the water in shadow, harboring
secret desire to witness the world
from the opposite side. Squinting,
my stunned vision sun-cleared,
surrendering fantasy for the magic
of what is: a deer silently fording
the river, traveling through blue
and green into the dawn, wading
to the gold-leafed shore beyond.
He moved as one in prayer, bowed
down, communing, aware of being
known and beloved, his journey held.
And everything transformed again.
Tell me what you believe or do not;
I’ll honor it, but know that for me
there is a voice and it is Love, just Love,
urging me to be its constant pilgrim
calling me awake every moment,
asking me only to open my eyes,
to meet the world as kin and allow
it to fill me with peace and feast
on my entranced and grateful joy.

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