Adrift

On the cusp of the already
and the not as yet,
I am carried on gossamer silken
threads.

High into the thermals, seeds
made for being carried on winds
rise in circular navigation
and I go with it.

I feel gravitation as a memory
and thought as a possible stance,
but Spirit knows what is best
and so I acquiesce.

It has been a tremor
of fluctuating postulations
without getting to grips
with any formula.

A mystery must remain so
until, leaps across time
make conjunctions with reason.

Perhaps a year will take me
to the root of the great oak;
for now I am carried, hushed
across treetops.

For now I am touching base
with the uppermost leaves
at the soles of my feet
and drifting higher.

Then higher again.

Jenneth Graser