Never in Pursuit

Never in pursuit

The stumbler thought of happiness
and how it crept upon him
as a spectre, extracting from the mist
without a dare, to resurrect
the Buddha's absolute delight.

There was a precedent, of course—
a self accepted ecstasy, then set aside,
forgotten as a surge of joy
may never know reprise,
will lose itself as motherhood
may bare her breast, each sacrifice
an act of love.

It is today I stumble, giddily, with him.
It is my moment to rejoice,
to celebrate no cause
but all this universe may tender,
sculpting men from mists,
molding its beatitudes
upon the desert sands,
departing with its kiss.

Ourselves are not for burial,
nobility not for the seeking,
terror not an overture to run away.
There is a fertile ground
for tears to dwell in, to enrich
the harvest tree of mirth.
It stands.
It stands, you daughters of the earth.
Cantabimus et psallemus, Alleluya
~