Moving

holding onto your magic lance,
that splinter from the Tree of Life,
you hurtle still through time and space
proceeding in the only direction you know how

from your limited vantage point it appears
you make no progress

when another soul flashes past,
you catch an envious glimpse of their fine coat,
and observe the movement of the stars beyond them,
finally perceiving your very own velocity

now, knowing others race ahead all around,
you grab tight your lance and kick your legs out
making wild, elaborate efforts to gather speed

but so soon you tire, you slip and fall away,
tumbling past Neptune and crashing into Chiron
who shrugs you off and streaks past

after a moment's pause you are dragged along
in the hot tail of your lance,
its course as sure as ever

exhaustion aids your will;
you glide ahead and alight upon that shard of yours,
a fraction of the great Tree of Life

you see just then how holding still,
lying along that length of Wood,
you journey on in union

progress is perception,
and perception is a half-truth

we perceive the fixed galaxy before us,
but we decline to detect from within the deep hole
of our own travels
that we are a sparkling bit of starburst
aimed straight toward common Destiny

lie back against your lance,
in stillness just watch how you fly