RigobertoRogier

The season begins
in a blaze—
reds and yellows
burning like small suns
On every branch.

A thousand shades of color
thicken the world
with a beauty
almost too rich
to touch.

But time moves
the way time must.

Color loosens.
Brightness dims.
and the living colors
softens
into sandy
brittle
yellow-brown-rust.

Most leaves
sense the invitation—
feel the subtle unthreading
in their veins—
and loosen their grip.

They let go.

They fall
cleanly,
naked,
into the open wind
that has been waiting
for them
since spring.

Returning.

But some—
some remember
too vividly
the radiance
they once wore.

Their edges tighten.
They tremble
against the pull
of tomorrow.

They forget what they birth in dying.
and cling
to their branches

long after
the light
has left them. 

Show up each new day,
As faithful as dawn breaking—
Rising, returning.

Spine tall, follow breath;
With intention, stay present—
Clouds drift, untroubled.

Like a night watchman 
Thoughts appear from empty dark—
Watch all that arise

Pause before speaking;
In stillness, a door opens —
Let words fall gently

Act, or leave undone?
Trust the training you have shaped—
All threads interweave.

They swarm like locusts;
Tend the inner field with care—
Love becomes the yield.

Life, a passing dream—
Nothing stands alone or fixed;
All dissolves, in time

All life is precious
Hold with reverence and prayer
One with the cosmos

Take what is given
the earth pours out abundance.
Give all that you have

Pause before speaking
in stillness, a door opens
Let words fall gently

Sweet is life’s pleasure
Do not grasp or cling to it
All things come and go

Before each repast,
ask how this bread came to be—
give thanks with your breath.

He asked if I was Christian.
I said, “Have you seen the beautiful sunrise this morning?”

He asked if I was Muslim.
I said, “Can you hear the barking dog for need of water?”

He asked if I was Hindu.
I said, “Can you smell the sweet aroma of the bread in the oven?”

He asked if I was Buddhist.
I said, “Can you feel the cool wind on your face?”

He asked if I had no belief.
I said, "Have you tasted a red, ripe apple?"

He asked who I was.
I said, “I am.”

He tries to conceive
of God
through thought.

And every time,
fails to see her
face.

But he is sure of this 
method.

He is sure that
God
is a prearranged assortment
of atoms.

If only he had the recipe!

At night,
when we dream,
the fight for our wholeness begins.
Spirit awakens,
ego left with no ground beneath it—
weakened by quiet,
by silence.

Here the battle starts:
thick sweat, shivering cold nights
as we wrestle angels
and our Spirit decides
it’s time to undo the damage
of the old friend
we trusted for its fleeting warmth
on cold dark nights.

Isn’t it strange
that we awaken
while we sleep?

I pray for those
whose Spirit stirs in the night—
that they recognize
the good fight,
the cold sweats and confusion
as part of the journey.

The only battle worth fighting
is the one where we release
what binds us.
And the only defense,
the only true friend,
is the loving-kindness
we offer ourselves.

To fight
is to sit quietly
in our own shit—
that tangle of drippy, sticky thoughts
insisting we are unworthy of love.

So welcome the Night!
Recognize the trembling sweat
as your return to Wholeness,
proof that Spirit is ready—

Let her take your hand,
lead you through the dark,
and kiss you with her
soft, gentle
lips.