We are an extract
of earth, of cosmos, of the secret that shapes itself through us –
a slow-birthed essence,
a path already imagined
before our steps remembered it

And in the thinned flock of my words –
ravens drifting without formation –
I stand before Anna’s bookcase,
shadowed by its pale green veil,
the one that once let me sit zazen
beyond the bright disorder of spines

I draw the veil aside.
Shelves breathe out their quiet decades.
And there – where horse-lore crowds the wood –
a book flares up like a summoned sign:
Göran Sonnevi’s The Book of Soundings.
I open it.
Its lines rise like primordial wind:

Everything begins.
The cosmic architecture accelerates.
We do not know what kind of beings we are.

The unexpected folds into the unexpected.
Synchronicity reveals its pulse –
that secret hinge Jung named,
that glimmer Chopra keeps circling –
a soft alignment within the fabric of things

A tenderness moves through it,
a smile from Kuan Yin,
from Avalokiteshvara,
from the Dalai Lama –
three faces of Compassion’s single radiance

Life answers me
before I have finished asking.
The poem I have just begun
is answered from within the weave

And I go to Anna,
and she smiles –
out of the moment,
out of the years