Ritual

Early this morning,
in the magical quiet
of the twilight hour,
a waking-dream appeared.

Pulled by the scent
of sacred herbs smoldering
on the altar,
I entered.

Through the doorway
of here and there,
I stepped into
the electric sepulcher,
the inner chamber
of universal mystery.

Through the silk chiffon air,
I could see silhouettes
of men and women
dressed in flowing vestiges.
They walked slowly around
wooden tables containing
musical instruments
and implements of
sacred expression.

I joined them.

Together we moved
in time, in space.
Alert and alive,
every hair sensing
the growing potential,
that pregnant swelling
before the cantor sings
the first note,
before the eastern sun
breaks the horizon,
before the lover
arches her back.

Then, it began.

The song emerged
from unknowable space,
as if the air itself was singing
through our bodies.

Softly at first,
a cappella.
Then, drums;
a slow steady pulse.
Then, exotic strings
whisper prayers
of desert valleys.

Every note,
every move,
every gesture,
every atom,
is entirely known
without knowing.

I would love to tell you more
if words would suffice.

Yet, there is another way,
if you want it.

Close your eyes
and see.
Close your ears
and listen.
Follow the swirls
of incense.
Follow the ancient song
through the threshold
of knowing
into the splendorous
temple of Being.

Here,
you are home.

Now, forget everything
that mind holds
and move with us.