Bathed in the soft, gentle luxury
of mystical, vibrating music;
That caresses me safe
Like the rhythmic warmth
of my mother’s heart
and the perpetual rustling breezes
of her murmurring lungs,
with only the slightest whisper
of that far-off oneday land;
I strive and suffer here
to take my time.
My hesitating mind stops and it starts.
It is not my mind.
I do not think, nor am I thought.
I could think.
And the dimensions and the space
and the union,
could be felt
And of all the intimations and the dreams
I have felt from yes to no.
I live in the starlight of that
In that special vague place where words begin.
And I know
that I have not yet been born.
© 1976 by James L. Anderson