Kundalini Splendor

Belgian Lace

Trees like to stay in one place,
go down deep
drink the milk
of the mother.

Flowers are show offs,
uncovering their delicate parts
in air,
waiting for the sun
to give them a kiss.

Waves shatter against the rocks,
then make themselves again
as Belgian lace,
fringes of beginnings.

Clouds can’t make up their minds,
shift constantly into new patterns,
now a camel,
now the magi or a king.

People in cities
are constantly bumping into one another,
exchanging energy
in secret transactions.

On the cliffs there is silence,
space plunging down,
distance stretching up,
only the sound of the wind calling,
ghosts of fog drifting in
from some other shore

bearing the secret.

Dorothy Walters
November 17, 2008