Lost in the lofty quality
of dissolving dreams,

coming to mind,
coming to self,
coming to body

this morning upstairs;

the balcony door
left open all night,
indoors and outdoors
in union,
the chilly night air
of mid August
with the Moon hanging low,
fresh around my realization
of Body and Now,
engaging the rising day
in a almost ceremonial routine
of a healthy oats and pumpkin seeds
breakfast,
propped up in The Great Ship of Dreams
upstairs by myself, Anna-less,
(the lady at work in the hospital since hours,
60 kilometers down the road)
downing my few necessary medications,
selecting a couple of books
for an hour or so of reading
while my mind is at its brightest;
today Douglas Hofstadter's
Le Ton beau de Marot
and Rebecca Solnit's The Faraway
Nearby,
while I already happily anticipate
the meditative chore of sitting
by the bushes behind the house,
picking the ripe black currants,
my fingertips taking on a dark reddish hue,
nostrils drawing the enchanting fragrance
that lifts my sense of the present
into a clear-sighted awareness
of the totality of myself and all,
with three horses grazing nearby,

while, a little further up the day,
past zenith and noon,
I expect an exalted exercise ride
on my racing bike
'round this open country up north,
always offering me new thoughts,
new plans, new solutions
...and fresh poetry
in this old age
that could hardly engulf
this old boy
in a manner more gentle,
as I'm, with the words of Bob Dylan,
”lifted away in a light that is not of day”,

slowly entering the eleventh day
of August 2020
on the just intonation
of Terry Riley's Harp of New Albion