I touched it once. Maybe twice. But I couldn’t hold it. It pulsed in my hand like light before slipping through my fingers; scent of crushed petals on my skin. After that, I was gentler, stealthy.
Beauty is shy of capture.
She lives inside me like a memory, a gaping longing that pushes me on—searching, chasing, ever-seeking her pale luminance.
I watch the wind bend the willowy branch of the plum tree. I see the first opening buds color the limbs of the maple scarlet. I stand under a sea of waking stars. I hear the cry of the red-shouldered hawk to her lover as she carves her circles in the sky.
This is what it means to be alive, to live fully awake: always reaching, always hungry, thrilling to every glimpse of the Divine in my small, unseen life.
This is my story.