old definitions which once set limits to my living, break apart like dried crusts.

riff, Rilke

the mirror gets clearer and cleaner.

anxiety of ‘losing’ slips away down

the drain. no sooner, I can not recall it being

anywhere other than washed away.

the ancient spell that human

difficulties has knit into the brow of generations

has unraveled from my shoulders.

there is a presence I hear spoken of I

read so often it comes now

fleeting but comes

and I grasp it finally

furtively but finally holding onto what before seemed only there for others for the ancient ones now

lives through me.

Hafiz says and I say, I want sight.

show me this living that slides through my fingers, telling me it is there, yet as yet, a wisp, a prayer.