In the western wind
in Arizona, in the
night wind resting
through the pines
anchored in the dry
land, in the silence
of the night drivers
curving along the
highway, through the
pines and the dry
night wind, the
western wind that
rests through dark
along the dry land
there comes the moment
where you see that
all is a toppled monument,
not a Sphinx resting in sand,
but a fallen world
toppled in the long dark.
It is the torn root of ecstasy,
it is the moment after death
when the forged documents
blow across the highway
and catch for a second,
here and there, against the
toppled stones with
their hidden inscriptions.
Read down deeper into
things and you find a
hand writing faster than
you can read; in the whole
natural moment,
in less moment than a
breath you can see the garden
gone bad, where wolves
roam the perimenter, where
the fallen stones are
choked and the forger works
all night. Only in the
wind resting in
the pines does one voice
speak the truth, and there is
only one truth, one truth
among a billion forgeries.
In the fallen down world,
in the night wind resting
through the pines and dark,
one voice fills the
hollow with truth and that
truth is always and only
love. It is not, like all
other things, cursed by
accident or elevated by
charm. It is alone the
reason for hope, resting
as the wind through the
toppled stones, in the
garden gone bad, among
the forgeries and in the
grip of the forger.
We call it faith, but
faith the word and faith
the experience, faith
the objective experience,
are a substance before
hope and the substance
of hope fulfilled, with
the western wind resting
in pines, resting in
dark, the one voice
among the toppled stones of
the fallen world.