SMOOTH AS A WHISPER

The North Star,

being the one around which

the others appear to circulate,

is the one by which

we actually navigate,

and have for millennia.

A deep-seated awareness

of thunder in the distance

will not bring the storm.

It could go elsewhere.

Our understanding of the still point

is always caught up

with the time when

the storm comes;

it is where the mind goes,

it is what we remember.

When the storm goes elsewhere,

we forget.

The mind that thinks upon the infinite

will ever be caught up in experience,

limited and colored, yet no less true.

The life we live

is driven by the arrow of time,

is colored by its spinning feathers,

holds the secrets of its shaft,

bears its own point of truth,

and feels the gravity

of its passage

in the endpoint we call death.

There are, after all, so many stars;

the pattern of the archer

moves slowly with them

as an ancient truth of legend,

and the clouds, smooth

as a whisper, have moved on.