MidSummer At Highden

This night

began in winter

on a mountain in Tibet

and I know I will never understand

because understanding requires two things

one to stand under the other

and there were no things there and then

only a sudden leap into the furnace

where all things are generated

And now

what is left of that leaping

has come to dwell here

among the lingering prayers

of monks

and the silent, sensual shout

of roses

today

a strong wind

scattered petals through the garden...

What is this great breath

that strips the flower of the soul down

to white spirit bones?

eight shafts of jewel-song

in praise of the One

It is midsummer night

at Highden

and my dream is of Kailas

and the deep memory

that rises in wood

when it is brought

at last

to the fire