blogpoems

Listening, I sometimes imagine I hear
Out there just beyond the cusp of sanity
the river of voices Siddhartha once stood in
a choral murmuring of the was, is and will be

It was orchestrated by the wind coming in
From the west through Jumalan Kukkaro*
With the maples rustling and knocking branches
and the two-toned green poplars as glassy chimes

How many hours did I stand there listening?
How many more since I left has the wind continued
to ride the range of reason, laughing
telling me I can not always believe what I hear

Still, I am left to sift through my ignorance
gazing, unsure whether what remains is gold or dross
The river flows through my hair, a grandmother's hand
and waits patiently for my final answer.

* Finnish for God's Purse or a heavenly place