Time comes when a window opens
and I stop smearing the glass.
Time when the colours won’t stick;
their language slides away
and there’s a glimpse
a seeing that’s a buddha-gate
an opening to white
not snow-blind supremacy
but the white of no-white
the white that can't be proclaimed
the white
that colours move on through
move, as a rusted hinge
squeals on the axis of presence
to let the gloating and the sobbing
fall like snow
no build-up, no clenching, no judgement.
In this honesty
an openness starts pulsing
and that pulls me out
to sway on the tightrope of faith
and find a way to move
past the buddha’s moonrise smile
on through the breath-rich chest
into those hands,
thumb-tips in touch, palms listening
as love ought to
does sometimes for a moment
in its moment
and we could talk about that.
People like to talk about that.
But the unspoken need
is to wrap
around abysmal greys
to flex and ease
muscles that deny so much
and protect so little;
to trust a softening
so the white can bleed
into the sand-dry silence
find shape
gather voice
to call me out
through the open window
before colours grab my eyes.