Origins

            What if work-a-day mornings ended in the freedom of the blank page?
            The pen hesitant, driven neither by deadlines, nor money, nor ego.

The mind calm. No disciples. No one to teach. Contemplation never spinning

 into a story like tropical winds fed by the memory of the sun on

warm seas become, to their surprise, a hurricane whirling irresistibly north.

Instead, the ever changing offers sufficient fascination, limitless trails

of voluptuous beauty. Red bud trees, magnolias, forsythia exploding into bloom,

the gnarled trunks of the old beeches marching like elephants though the forest,

calling you on and on with their endless  tales of light, texture and

aroma that leaves  no need to stop to tell others. We are on trails where

 time itself dissolves, becoming before and after, lives encapsulated in a blink,

as they are, but without conscious infirmity, suffused not with forgetting and passivity, but with joy, with vigorous curiosity, calmly accepting the offering that

pulls us along in the adventure that we share with others met in that forest

in their own raptures, the passions melding, adding something even more to the world, a new society—without solipsism, greed or war, whose motor is intuitive need and sharing, the pageant of the gift.

And  knowledge of everything, of tov i ra, did come into Eden

with familiar inevitable consequence, as necessity, fate, or choice unfolds along with endless, selfless fascination, disclosing everything, explaining everything, experiencing everything and telling one another the tale. The memory 

become the story of consequence, of blessing and curse.

Innocence, the blank page, in practice the inevitable progenitor.

              Poetry