Senses usher in the non sensual form,
the birthright,
the road we all walk-
ants to the hill, direction and purpose
silently known.
What appears mythically
upward joy and downward grounding,
for this we are intended~
all directions
The movement home not
a march,
but the lingering wake of a desert storm,
noon in autumn, spring scent and
pirouette of flight,
lift of hymn, unexpected and unassigned,
the light footed approach towards
what we are all here
to remember.