Imaginary balance lingers like a doe feeding
until she catches your eye and darts into shadow
elusive as the thread that held you to her,
bathed in the naked face of now
where acknowledgment of nirvana forces capitulation
to the scurries of illusion that make hearts flutter
giving birth to wings and feet
that wake earthbound forms from hiding
aware for a moment,
there is no lack under fullness.
Doors, on the other hand, are human constructs,
holding candlelight between walls,
casting night aside.
The doe prefers darkness,
breathing for the balance of her steady beating heart.
Brenda Warren 2013
Visit The Sunday Whirl.