To know what you are, stop the thoughts.
You are what’s left with that weather gone.
You, the true you, are the sky.




The sky goes through the body's senses
like a bamboo flute, every moment the All that truly is.
A stream of wind that takes what form the flute shall give.
Each note sky-new.

The memory of the notes is what you call a song.
This is what you think you are. But you are not.
You are the sky.

Not the song. Not the weather time weaves.
Not the re-presenting of the moment
in which the breath is lost as the song is sought.

No.

Shall I tell you what it is possible to be?

It is possible to know the moment
as it pours through on silken wings.
The sky, condensed for you to hold.

Not the unreal you of the Thinker’s craft,
so syllable-ridden, so silence bereft.

The colors may not be your own.
But on its wings you are the sky.
A palette on wings where this moment flies.





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James Saint Cloud
jsaintcloud@yahoo.com