Death Be Not Metaphysical

This winter I saw death as if I once had married her and knew it wasn't true.

The ones we think have died are figments of a ripe imagination as is the one who thinks it has survived.

Above the birch and cedar is the fact of open sky. 

Like consciousness, its winds are ever-changing, and like pure awareness, it's unmoved

by even whirlwinds that have reached the size of Category 5 named hurricanes.

There comes a time when time itself will end, but that in which the space of time has risen,

like thought-sized bubbles in a pencil-drawn cartoon, is as the page that always is, beyond all acts of such erasing.

And moreover, I never turn.

That Is All

To be, and then to know I am, is not the question or the answer, but the final turn in realizational intent of That

to know I'm That. It all begins with light the noise has named Big Bang, creating space in which molecular existence takes the turn

and makes the time to know it is. It's culmination comes with me in seeing I'm not me, but being only this, without conceptual conceit, I am.

Reflecting at that point, without a vestige of volitional illusion, That completes the sudden and immeasurable intent to know

That's That.