UNLIDNESS

What if you had
another head
inside your head--
      a better head
      but hidden.

A head that would call
to you, though hard to hear
with your big head talking
all the time, unaware
of that muted voice
           trying to get you
to listen.

Unless--as can sometimes happen--
one day you tilt, tumble, hang upside
down

--then the lid on your big head
flops open
and what comes out
in that shocking moment
is an opera
sung by ravens and lions.

But

by startled reflex,
you shove that lid back down
with a firm hand--
      ravens and lions are scarey, but
      even scarier when
      they sing

Opera.

Thereafter,
you’ll keep the lid securely in place...

unless...
as can sometimes happen--

one day, while I’m distracted
by the mountain clouds,
waiting for the sun to touch
the highest peak--

that lid on my big head
--quietly, secretly--
floats up

floats away.

And this time
as the ravens and lions
raise their choir,
I accept the music

because the singing feels
just like something
that’s supposed to happen
whenever I witness abundance.

During such moments
of unlidness,
I feel as if
I am beginning to be
the way I was always
meant to be.

© 2008 Michael R. Patton      go back