Mother, if our Soul is Timeless, and our knowledge of our eternal existence is Time, then You are keeper of both, dancing along the outer rim of the bowl of your universe—causeless yet causing and primal yet final. The eternal vibration of your dance thrums against my eardrums, yet it is beyond sound is beyond thought, as the infinite luminescence of your ever-presence and ever-absence is beyond sight.
ever-seeking our weary soul, you are, ever-knowing its decisions and indecisions, ever-moving through its lifetimes, ever-witnessing our suffering, in your carefully-wrought labyrinth of desire, though it is your compassion that bids us to break through the shackles of our self-imposed worldliness.
Atomic Mother, uniting all forms and lifetimes, your universal light probes all that is near and far, How easily I forget that you are the invisible force running through all, the evidence of things unseen. You are like morning mist rising above a lonely lake in the hills , yet you are also the womb of earth holding lakewater itself, and so too you are the tiny waves created by the skip and shimmy of fish and fowl whose little hearts you now palpitate, now silence; in a flash of your mighty sword you taketh what you maketh.
How like a poem struggling to break free of the chains of mind you are, Mother, a prayer formed against trembling lips in the hour of death, a thought on the brink of escape before pen meets paper, a villager’s waving lantern across a wooded path on a winter’s eve, a laughing maid’s lotus footfalls disappearing into night, a madman’s elegy to sanity, a teacher’s mercy on a prodigal student.
inscrutable you are, sometimes hidden in the very beads of time, in the sheath of each atom, in-dwelling as the soul of all souls, sometimes breaking forth as a smile on the face of a passer-by, the tint of a pressing memory, in the kindness of my dearest enemy, the pulsation of my very own blood coursing through these veins; when I gaze into the mirror, you appear through it, as though your face were plunging out of its pool of light and meeting mine own, before melting back into the light from whence you came, leaving me, leaving me in my own darkness, though your impression remains, like lingering birdsong in my child’s mind.
MINERVA’S PERCH 
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