We are love’s echo

is love a buried treasure?
where is the map to love?
it traces itself on these lines in our fingertips and on our faces
we are love's echo
our eyes are her reflection
we cannot see our own beauty
as there is nothing to see

where is the one who would find love?
what happens when there is no more looking,
and there is no love to be found
nor lost
as it is everywhere
and nowhere
love has no place nor time and casts no shadow
there is no tongue to pronounce it
no lips to kiss is
no words to hold it

the dream of forgetting wanders the dream of remembering
the dream of knowing is lost in the dream of unknowing...
love sings in the heart of the wind that has no center
or edges
soaring through itself, it greets itself

look and you will not see her
listen and you cannot hear her
yet she is in the looking
and seeing
she cannot be embraced or held
but she is in the embracing
the holding
and the letting go

Looking for the self is like trying to find the center of an infinitely faceted jewel 

This magic cannot be

seen

It’s in the seeing 

it cannot be touched 

It’s in the touching 

It cannot be kissed

It’s in the kissing 

This love cannot be tasted 

It’s in the tasting 

Itself 

Through your beautiful beautiful eyes 

paper hearts

paper birds

paper worlds

crumpled and blooming

paper flowers

paper words

sea of ink flowing silently into sky

and sea

writing the lands known

and unknown

upon which you seem to wander

looking for more words

more knowing

more solidity

more land

more wandering

more time

echoes

that have no source

cannot lead you to the dreamless space

it does not exist

it is only an echo

like you

wind sighs its empty breath

first red roses are dancing

knowing not of spring

or wind

no one holds the pen that writes you

sketches you into this worded world

there is no pen

nor story

that is not story

and you, a beautiful story

rich and lush and glowing with all stories

ever heard

a flowing gown of reflections

that no one wears

memory's beautiful garden

blooms

and wilts

paper petals

paper dust

paper wind

no one has a story yet that is a story... 

isn't is beautiful how this story writes itself with every word? 

we are these beautiful thought dreams that sing themselves

circular are these words that refer to other words that are echos of echos of echos and have no source... 

the spinning seems to create a center and that is a beautiful story... 

and I love you, and that is the story of me being the loving of you...  and weeping at the beauty of love falling in love... the most wondrous story of all

no one dances as starlight

shedding forgotten shadows

it is but a beautiful dream

that you were

or are

or will be

something

or someone

who awakens

or who sleeps

we are memories

blooming

and fading

there is no canvass

upon which the dream is painted

no stave upon which the notes are written

no one writing the music

or painting the lushness 

and starkness

of love

singing itself

dawn slides into the canyon

night hides in the shadows

wind rustles the new leaves

slender stalks support a carpet of hovering flowers

life sings itself

spins itself into this wondrous daydream

looking and feeling like anything at all

the juiciness of life is not abandoned

in the story of awakening

nothing is lost

nothing is found

all is lost

all is found

words skim the surface of words

lightly tangled in more words

crocheting sky into sky

all these lines and sqiggles

and letters and spaces

sound and silence

are formed by the words themselves

this deep deep hush that lies in-between words

worlds untouched

unknown

unspoken

the song you have been longing to hear

to know

to touch

to feel

is in the knowing

and the unknowing

the sung

and unsung

the touching

and the longing to touch

it is born and dies without pause

it is neither bound by words

nor untethered

it is not emptiness

nor fullness

it is not in-between

there are no sides

or middle

not even nothing without words

and the tiger walks down main street

stalking her shadow

comes in through your doorway

while you are thinking about cleaning the windows

her deafening roar melts your eyes

your skin

your blood

your bones

your heart

your love....

ashes adrift on burning shadows

sinking in the sea of reflections

you were nothing but echoes

of echos

of echos

love calls your name

and you cannot fail to answer

it is her name

the tiger

and you

It felt like I was an empty shard

Of an infinitely shattered sky

Reflecting everything

Reflecting nothing

A sky of razors

Slicing my skin

My lips

My tongue

My song

My heart

I was the story of brokenness

That fell into the story of wholeness

But nothing was mended

Sky had never been broken

There was no sky

There is only the story of sky

And infinite reflections

And that is a story

That has no story teller

There seems to be a story-less story

That this is all there is

But there is no this

Or that

All these lines spin the tale

Of lines

And what is left when the storybook character somehow sees that it is the story?

It is not the end of the story

As all and everything is the story

Including this story

Writing itself

The story of a girl of a woman called Nancy

Became the story of wind

Singing

Love songs

For after the falling of the story of enlightenment

The story of love remains

I love you

You are a most wondrous part of my story

the song is the world

the world is the song

there is no inside or outside to this song

there is no inside or outside to these words

there is no inside or outside to you

without this song

there are no lips to sing it

nor heart to listen

the song is the singer

the singers

and the hearts that swirl in galaxies of wonder

that there is a world

of songs

love is the lover

the beloved

and the love

love is hearts swirling in ever expanding galaxies of wonder

that there is love

born of shadows

born of light

born of the wondrous uncrossable oceans

between lovers

between stars

between an imaginary inside

and outside

there is no middle

falling though the mirror

there is only love

no one looking

no one finding

no one loving

love is a mirror

we see our own unfathomable beauty

and the beauty of love

only in each other's eyes

just like this

love sings

and the song

is love

songs flow though these fingers

rainbows and wind flow through me

and I am the wind and these songs flowing

songs of laughter

songs of tears

the last strains of moonlight rippling in the garden

songs cannot capture this love

that sings itself

it is the song of the morning

and the cool winds rushing down the canyon

sun hiding behind the mountain

while shadows hover beneath the bushes

waiting for light to bloom

this heartbeat which sings the day 

and night

is this spinning thought dream

this web of words

tangling threads of this and that

into a flowing tapestry ever weaving and unweaving itself

love requires two-ness

there is no love

nor oneness

nor two-ness

nor both

nor all

nor neither

nor none

through this thought dream

that dreams itself

we seem to appear

we require others to see ourselves

we are each other

blooming in each others heart songs

rippling waves of intimacy

never touching

always melting

in as and through love

this is the greatest intimacy

this loss of all and everything

this loss of all you have ever loved

and the one who loved

it is the end of all barriers between you and the world

and all lines and spaces between things

the wall between heaven and hell is as thick as thought

and what is left asked the child

wide eyed and full of wonder

what is left when nothing can be held

when the hands and heart have dissolved?

the fairy tale of love continues to stream through itself

as shoreless oceans do...

and a wondrous dance of life unfolds all by itself

no one has won or lost

it is all a prize for no one

a bottomless treasure chest

no thingness is wondrous

everything is amazing

liquid shimmering reflections dancing

in love

as love

though love

life flows

subsumed as awe itself

I am edgeless

there is nothing that I am

and nothing that I am not

there are no things

I am the sweep of loving this unfathomable seamless world

the knowing of no thingness

and this feeling of infinite sublime spaciousness

I am the sweeping paintbrush of love and beauty

drenching the worded world of things

of red geraniums and golden finches hanging upside down on the feeders

endless blue

and cloudy skies

tears of wonder of this immediate intimacy

and the filagree of lace flowing over the canyon moon

my fingers as they softly flow across this keyboard

my husband's hands as he stirs the oatmeal

the coffee maker burbling

and the cacophony of back yard birds

fountains shimmering and laughing

wind sailing through the morning leaves

there is no one writing or doing this amazing show

it is all marvelously unwritten

and un-rehearsed

no one reads it

or performs it

we are this love song

singing itself

simply, beautifully, this sensuous sensorial banquet is inseparable from its recognition 

it paints itself

there is no canvass

it does not appear from somewhere

or go anywhere

it is simultaneously self arising and self erasing

painted with water in water

sky in sky

wind in wind

there are no sides to the looking glass

liquid love flows into itself

through our beautiful beautiful eyes

nothing is a concept ... what is beyond concepts... isn't beyond a concept?

 isn't concept a concept

When imaginary walls are seen to be imaginary... there is a feeling of loss of stability of certitude of permanency...

This can indeed be scary 

But isn’t this a feeling also of utter freedom 

When there is no one to be free or bound?

This is a losing of everything, including the notion that there is a someone who had things and is now losing them... a someone who is losing their entire world of this and that...

is there someone who had a world or are you simply another concept in a worded world, in this thought dream which paints even the idea of thought as a thing... 

of nothing as a thing 

Of emptiness as a thing 

Of things 

As 

Things 

morning blooms

cricket song hides under the roses with the leftovers of night

I am a carpet of swirling light

and shadow

pirouetting in the garden

rainbows flow though me

I am colors dancing

in this echo land dream

there is no source of light

or sound

or this ballet of wind and sun showers

slowly

waltzing

in me through me as me 

there is no source to love's echo

you can feel it but there are no words to sing it

it resonates deeply

breaks your heart

a million times each moment

you are this thousand petaled softness

this velvet sweep of love

blooming

and erasing

the lines and spaces of every poem

there is no beginning or end to the wind that sings these wind songs

soaring

dissolving all distance

between you and this brilliant immediacy

such heart breaking beauty

simply the intimacy of life just as it seems to appear

doves alight on the telephone poles

morning soars

through lace wing sky

Somehow the dream of delicious unknowing and lack of a need to capture the wind or love feels like love 

No you or me or wind...

No you or me or love 

All ideas all imaginings are wondrous 

How marvelous that anything seems to appear... including the need to feel safe ...to feel loved... to look for walls that define an imaginary persona

To look for the someone or thing that wears the mask 

To run out in a storm and yell 

Stop! 

Or to lay in the rain... 

true and false are simply more imaginary walls that seem to shut out the light 

But there is no light 

Nor darkness 

Nor both 

Nor neither

and who sings the song of the moon's

last

sigh

where is the line between you and moonlight?

is it your skin

your eyes

your heart?

is it where the letters of the m o o n end?

who penned those love letters that melted when the sun rose...

gently

erasing the moon's reflection in your eyes

we emerge only in the touching

yet we never can

truly

touch

bodies can dance

we are merely reflections of moonlight

dancing in each other's eyes

there is no one under emotion or who has feeling...

Emotions flow and there is no beginning nor end 

This deep deep current of un-named emotion is beautiful 

There is nothing outside the flow

We are it 

It’s like your heart explodes and implodes and there is no place for all this love 

There never was... 

This love was never yours...

love cannot be known or touched or gathered as we are it 

We arise in the loving of each other 

In the touching... 

Knowing we can never touch

and she laughs and weeps at the magnificence of the story of a girl a woman a songster who is laughing and weeping at the enormity at this infinite intimacy of knowing she is a story, a spinning thought dream, a fantastical lover’s story where lovers magically appear only in the loving... 

liquid sky cannot hold the morning

eyes cannot hold the sky

we are watercolor dream scapes of reflections

of shimmering echoes

without a source

we are thought dreams

wandering through a forest of words

thought spins

and objects seem to appear

trees

leaves touched by moonlight

skies and clouds

and feet

moving

and someone wandering

looking for freedom

looking for love

looking for solidity 

in a dream

there are no things to be bound or free

nothing to be known or unknown

no one separate to know or grasp what is going on

the worded conceptual world is the only world we can know

the thought dream seems to create a knower and things known

perhaps there is an uneasy feeling that there is no solidity no permanency no certitude... 

self is the looking for certitude...

as life is felt to be magical death is feared

more and more assumption of knowing appears to create solidity

yet this wall of knowing also seems to block out the light and love and magic you long for

you are the longing for solidity 

and the longing to dissolve...

there are no ladders you can climb to reach the sky

sky needs no scaffolding to hold it up

where do you end

where does sky begin

it is only thought, these very words, which seem to paint a sky

and you

and love

morning sun spreads light and shadow

and colors blooming

clouds seem to catch the sunrise

but it is only echoes

that we see

that we hear

that we are

what is underneath the color red?

what is underneath the words

is unknowable

ungraspable

not even nothing

or any thing

there is no solidity

nor impermanence

no fleeting momentary

underneath thought

this conceptual dream scape

is like a razor net of words

seemingly slicing up the sensorial display and its inseparable recognition into separate bits

things and events

it paints a thing called a symphony of perception

and awareness

a you

a me

and love

all words reference other words

every word seems to create a thing

and everything which is not that thing

including a you

this is most marvelous

as without this conceptual dream scape

there is no sky

nor trees

nor you 

nor me

nor love

all of life does itself

simultaneously self arising and self erasing

ever emerging

ever dissolving

without movement

or non movement

love flows

first light in the garden

the feeders are empty 

I can hear golden finches in the roses

gently swaying in the canyon breeze

softness of morning light

flows through the windows

flows through me

I am the morning

morning is me

the dream crochets me with words

and I am the unravelling

of words into letters

consonants and vowels

lines and squiggles

painting all and everything

into an echo land dream scape

reflections dancing with reflections

a treasure without a source

the magic you long for is life itself

there is no need to look for something under it

or beyond it

or outside of it

it has no edges

it is not an it

you are life's enchantment

a love song of stories without beginning or end

memory spinning itself into a tapestry of unparalleled wonder

words weaving themselves into a flowing web

a cat's cradle of thought

without hands

or anything to capture

thought paints an imaginary window between you and the universe

splashes light and color and golden finches singing

nothing on either side of the looking glass

no sides 

and no middle

it is this imaginary membrane 

that trembles at the majesty

of life seeing itself

through your eyes

kissing itself

through your lips

falling in love with itself

through you

ocean of love beckons

your can hear your heart song

faintly

softly 

calling your name

it is the waves on the rocky shore

it is the wind in the tree tops

It is the sound of sunset

bathing your beautiful face

it is rainbows

blooming

flowers wilting

leaves tenderly unfolding to catch the sun

sunlight dancing on water

and the stillness when all the ripples have dissolved 

it is a faint and mysterious echo

a song you thought you heard

long long ago

it is reflected in starlight

and waits in the shadows

where you try to hide

it is the world singing

and weeping

it is your own love calling you home

a home which you have never left

nor can enter

for it has no sides

nor center

nor any thing called love

When it’s known that there is no perfection nor imperfection it all feeeeeeeeels

Perfect 

No matter what it looks or feels like 

Spontaneously utterly beautifully so life does itself 

No one is doing it 

It is not happening to anyone

It is not an it 

The dream of love subsumes the dream of separation