RigobertoRogier

I begin
again
and again—
a human rhythm
of faltering
and returning,
losing
and remembering.

And the very fact
that I know
I am beginning
is the distance
between myself
and the sparrow.

Who rises
without hesitation,
moves
without reflection,
returns
without naming it.

She does not
measure
her starts.
She does not
name the place
she lands.

She knows
no other way
but the one
she is already living:
a continual
unfolding
so natural
it cannot be called
beginning
at all.

And standing here,
watching her lift
into the quiet morning,
I feel the soft ache
of being human—
aware of every step,
yet longing
for her effortless
flight.

It’s not the darkness that I fear.
We have made up
And she is welcome in my house anytime!

She was the one I never understood
the shadow-twin of my goodness,
my light.
They exist only together,
inseparable as breath and body.

What makes me tremble at night is
Not the darkness.

It is the groundlessness.

When there is nothing beneath me
When I am free falling
And grasping
Reaching for all those
Illusions I’ve created over
A lifetime.

Like dying twigs from and old Oak,
They do little to break my fall.
And yet I grasp anyway
I reach for them.

What if I were to just fall?

What if I would relent in my grasping?

What if I were to welcome annihilation?

I’ve tasted it once before.

And its flavor was—
unexpectedly—
sweet honey.

What I Meant

When I said
we were okay,
I meant
the storm
wouldn’t
break us.

I did not mean
you could step away
from the fire
we both
tend.

And when I said
I’d support you—
your longing,
your becoming,
your tender ache
to navigate
Old deep wounds,
your daughters,
your mother’s shadow,
the whole lineage
of women
you’re still
untangling—
I meant
I see you.

I know
what you’re carrying.
I know
some nights
your heart
is a battlefield
of old loyalties
and new wounds,
and that you move
through storms
I will never
fully name.

But somewhere
between your fear
and my reassurance,
a silence
took root.

You heard
permission
to rest.
I heard
the call
to carry.

And I have carried
much
without complaint—
not because
you asked,
but because
love taught me
to lift
before I asked
for help.

But now
I feel the imbalance,
the soft but certain
tilt
in the rafters.

I want
your hand
back on the beam.

Not as burden,
not as duty—
but as the quiet,
steadying
presence
of a partner
who remembers
what we’re
building.

I’m not asking
for more
from you.
Only
that you return
to the place
where we both
begin.

Where you see
that what I hold
matters.
And where we learn
to shape this life
side by side—
not as weight,
but as breath.

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. 

Some days
I’d like to take
my bodhisattva vows,
and shove them
far up someone’s ass.

Anyone.

Some days

I’d lock the ignorant
inside the house they built
and throw away
the key.

Let them eternally pace
the same rooms
convinced of their freedom.

Some days

I wish I could drink
from the cup of delusion
without consequence.

Drink deeply.
Forget what I’ve seen.
Forget what I know.

Some days

I don’t want another lesson.
Don’t want another teaching.
Don’t want a god damn awakening
Leave me to sleep!

Some days

I’d rather be comfortably numb
than conscious
of this endless
breaking open.

Some days

I’d rather die ignorant
than carry
one more fucking ounce
of understanding.

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!