Ode to Odes

Above the clouds
where there is no thinking,
no need for intellect
or dusty stacks
of books,

from this lofty space
these unneeded words fall,
contained in raindrops—

sometimes coming to us
as gentle showers for contemplation,
sometimes as stormy torrents
pelting the heart.

Drop by drop,
they bloat the dusty stacks
of books we have yet to read,
running in rivulets
down our Earth-bodies,
filtering through all memory
and experience, to the ground
beneath our conscious feet,

where, once embedded
in the sleeping soil of the ages,
they gradually ascend once again
like geese from the pond,
drifting back up, up

to that space above
the clouds, where there is
no thinking, no need for intellect
or dusty stacks of books
we keep meaning to read,
only joy and more joy,
wordless joy.

Claire Juno, © 2017

…dedicated to those above the clouds, on this Day of the Dead.

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