Nativity

Now it whirls,
lifts me up
and seeps into my very bone.
Dissolving me into a
thud
that completes its magnificent roar.
The impeccable ticks
and the prompt rings,
melt in me,
and a primitive spirit
that doesn't despair
is forged.

Unhindered, with the immense blue above me,
a fervor, burrowed deep in me,
leaps out
forming a wave,
as it comes forth and
ebbs
with the contact of
this naked myth,
        swallowing it completely.

I become the furrow
of the rough stone you hold,
the murky blue in the fleeting fragrance that makes your eyes droopy,
and the undulating vein of the old leaf that your fingers chart,
in a futile search for nothingness
        The reckless curve of the swooping bird
that you construct in the void,
all the tenor in the colors
that makes you hum,
and the luxuriant threads you see
in the muffled bird call
that gives afternoons its heaviness
        is me
I am the last ray you enjoy that makes the lazy dust gold,
and the galloping thunder,
arrogant with the rain, that you taste
on parched lips
                I am
the mist that blinds you,
the breeze that gives back
your eyes,
the feverish pearl that you catch, as it
jumps and dives in a silky stream,
                and the canine that pierces through you
on a white winter morning.

So as you delve out next,
lend yourself
into the heart of the mundane spirits
Unclench that bruised hand and let go of the time,
you clutch to, so tenderly,
Feel the texture of a solitary tree
you see everyday but move on
A flower might descend slowly at your feet
leaving behind a scented trail
and a lost bird might perch close by
just for your sight
You might hear the flight of a butterfly as it glides past you
as if ushering you
to a tribal welcome
where you see the padded air
leaning on to a bough
shy from your fresh glance

Who knows then,
you might as well notice a smile
Who knows,
you might smile
the smile again
Maybe,
you might just as well
hum again.
And maybe,
the lines on your palm will be
visible again.