My wisdom guides me like a beacon. It carves well ahead of me, as night and dimness collide, and I follow like a small deer. Road way, bright lights, my mother – scurry and I am free again to follow her, glowing with the moonlight.
I do not know her well or have the language yet to even speak, but trust binds us as vital as the cord of life. She is patient with me, her luminescence hovers calmly around each bend. Even as I quicken, or as I lose step and ripple, fall into the fragility of being, I hear her. Lulling, lulling, just before sleep and never more rested do I wake than this, in compliance to her whim.
Grateful.
I am grateful to see her, graze her, become smaller and more vast each moment, like air and sun across the plains after storm. The more I learn her, the less I become, exceeding my bounds of self into the ether until I am no discernable particle. Wisdom, then, has become. This remains my pursuit of life.
recent 