The Path.

The clock stops and the winter belly
comes to stir the underworld

The quaternity and the gnostic son
keep their rooted path

The Whole in a magic eye and
the forever unfolded

Vesica Piscis. The ancient fish
always in your minds I Am

There in a birthing
a secret is woven, unspoken

Into the womb where time stands still
the sacred flower the portal

An infinite petaled rose
For a dream to be born into the seeing eye

With an owl watching in the opening
calling the dreamers to be dreamed

And the King Stag’s breath
in the burnt autumn mist, is the mist

The word into tales where the constellations meet
like spiders weaving threads

Entwined in foxglove and matted bone
a crows wing and a suskewiet

Where a green lion stands to devour a Sun
seven stars on his hind leg and the Self waiting

There in the waters of consciousness.
Death, the illusion from where it feeds itself

Truth, a cycle unseen, a wheel that is not time
nor nature, nor anything of the mind.

As simple as a thing you tell yourself
Inside your beating heart.

“The earth is an Indian thing”
Our blood indigenous to this land.