Saturday, June 19, 2010

The Book of My Father


The Book of My Father

If we look closely, everywhere, there is stardust.
If we touch softly, everywhere, there is stardust.
Everywhere we look, stardust;
everything we touch, stardust.

All around the world, in front of us, inside of us;
the dust of stars, exploded in creation,
showering like seeds of love from heaven,
growing in galaxies, flowering as our ancient mother,
whom first we loved.
Growing as the strength of our ancient father,
throughout the land, at our feet, in our eyes,
these seeds of love, this stardust.

This dust, like powders, mixed into potions,
from the first formula, forgotten over time.
All we ever wanted, all we ever needed;
every longing for love is stardust, mixed like powders
into potions, kept in secret, waiting for the moment
when the time would be better, when we were more deserving,
when we were ready.

This dust, like powder, mixed into potions,
stoppered in bottles and stored in the darkness.
In the cupboard of the Irish immigrant serving girl,
in the pantry of the Queen; each and all, everyone,
hoping to make potions for love, for paradise.

Potions, like paradise, stoppered in bottles
and stored in the darkness, waiting for the moment
when we would be ready.

The first formula, forgotten over time,
cryptically written in the book of my father,
the beautiful dreamer, the doer of deeds.

The good book of my father, cryptically written
and passed down to me;
its words underlined with pencil and pen,
filled with his questions that the book could not answer.


Over time, the pencils were traded for potions
and the book of my father lay covered
with dust, like powder, like stardust.
His paradise potion, mixed with peaches,
sealed with paraffin on the cabinet shelf,
with his good book, covered with dust,
and passed down to me.

The book and my father
sitting with bottles
there in the darkness, waiting for the moment
when the time would be better,
when he would be more deserving,
when he would be ready,
and he saw dust
everywhere he looked;
everything he touched;
dust to dust
was the circle he saw;
the circle never ending.

As the circle never ending, you and I;
we are that, that always was
and always will be.

From the seed comes the flower;
from the flower comes the seed,
as perfect love that always is,
always was, and always will be.

Inside seed was always flower;
inside flower was always seed;
first came not the one, nor the other;
always was, always will be;
like powder,
like stardust.
We are not a secret
cryptically written.

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