Sense

There is no door
To the lilac fields,
No road, no map,
No rhyme or reason.
But sweet is the scent 
That guides the blind —
That oldest, deepest sense,
Feral and intuitive.

Or perhaps it is touch that does not lie,
In this game that is not a game,
Won in the fingertips,
And lost in thoughtless hesitation —
For the magic of flowers,
Is that they turn to face the sun of their own accord.
Look then towards the lake,
Clear enough to reveal its depths,
And, if the incantation is spoken quietly,
On fire all the way down.

But he who seeks shall never find.
So patience then, is the guide —
The wisdom of Tiresias,
Who waits and waits,
Moving in no direction
Amidst constellations eternal,
Before the white heat at the end of it all,
Not to be feared, but embraced,
The final expression of sense inescapable.

Until then,
It is what we were made for;
To sense and be sensed,
To dream,
And to make art.