White Kite, Night Sky

The heart of being: the white kite in the night sky.
Everyone flies this kite, running, when and where they cannot see, 
hoping wind will come, lift them high, that they will not trip, 
as they move their feet in darkness,
not hurl themselves and their simple paper and crossbars
face down in the sand, or tangle, unreachable, 
in the black fingers of thorny tree. 

We, both kite and runner, connected by chord.
The nebulosity of being: peace and the implied threat.
There are night storms, predictable ones, in the form of doubt, 
in the form of mind. They remain within, deviate and distract, 
with the noise of our personhood and preferences, ask us to draw 
a pattern on the page: a tiger, a dragon, a bolt of lightning.
White kite, night kite, clean diaper: what exists, completely still?
 
Untouchable, imperishable, time, does float on the conscious
invisible something, lift it up and give the joy of balancing, 
up, in the middle of a great expansive nothing,
with birds, flying carpets, snowflakes, raindrops and hail.
Hail this.
Forces come to sabotage your opportunities for freedom, voices
commanding that you put away your paper kite, in a wooden trunk. 
Throw the weaklings in the fireplace.
Forces come, for every liberated being, every prophet, every child.
Do not fight. Remain. No swords or gun in your hands,
No axe, no poisoned pens, no military frock coat, no glittering gown,
no doorbell, no damp kitchen towel, no swaddling cloth,
not even a plain white shroud. 
Hover, between warp and weft.

Dress as the witness, be not diverted. Prime mover, unmoved mover.
They call your name, your doubt. Surrender to completeness. 
Don’t fall here. Now, you have advantage. Now.
You, not at some distance, not a body on some ground, 
not made of meat, dancing by force, 
not flesh with hope that is fragile.
No dumb luck lifts you up, into its sheer pulling or blowing, 
Ride some ship of fools. Read a newspaper, 
peeling potato skins into the same newspaper, the selfsame evening.
There is no form, no new news. You are here.
Confirm only seeing, not holding.
Only the presence of discovery, untethered. 
No force on earth or in heaven will move. 
You will not be relocated, displaced. You are
 
that which watches. You see sky. You see yourself seeing sky.
You see yourself, see what may block your path as you run.
You see paper, in the sky, in the shape of a diamond.
In the night, you believe you cannot see, yet, you are not dead, 
not tenebrous. You are the source of life itself, watching life.
Forget doing, perceiving from a space 
behind the space of the self, saturated in this sky.
Digesting, drowning in the free open sea, only here 
to serve your freedom, your natural, impersonal belonging.
Not a path of miles, kilometers, measurement of height, weight
a path of subtly and surrender. Do not go. 
Do not picture a kite. Do not be the night.
As all things born of time, your death, a relief,

the proof that all things pass. No war last forever.
Defeat the enemy that derives its power from your distraction and interest,
There is a temple here, as you are. 
The presence is known in you. Confirm, undistracted by foolishness. 
Be the one who wins yourself back.
Be the wind, not visible, yet inherent.
Being loved involves no change in the beloved.