The Wooden Bench

There, right there, over there,

can you see it?

There is the bench.

the solitary bench,

made of wood

and perfect illusion.

I’ve looked at it, stared at it, wished it nearer.

I’ve reached for it,

touched it, barely.

Cold ice

Open mouths

Fire tongues

Hush now, this is not your time to speak, to pick one.

Like hungry lions we circle it, the looming mirage,

alone in the desert.

Still hungering, I long and yearn,

always will, shall,

you tell me.

Busy waiting, I’m starting to let go,

mostly.

I’ve never understood, never been understood

completely.

And why would I?

Even if I were to get there, I wouldn’t want you there.

So while constantly looking into the distance, looking for the other, the other in me, the others

I lose myself, lose the others in myself, and re-invent myself.

While I am leaving, gone, long-lost,

I have returned home, to the mother, my mother, my being.

I have glanced at the mosaic that is so

mostly colorful,

partly dusty,

partly broken,

partly

empty.

And now I see you smile:

“It’s an illusion, child.”

Well, crooked smile,

hand me hammer and nail.

At least, let me imagine

Every day all day wherever I am

to sit on that bench in between

worlds

judgments

harsh calls

wherever my soul can

rest

trust

find refuge.

Where I can repose

only for a little.