Traces of Maya
by Roy K Austin
Catkins droop as buds promise,
snowdrops point me to the spring,
trees that branch into existence
mark their cycle with a ring,
inner growth to outer space
the solar map is in the bole,
if I listen and I look
I am conscious that the brook
is manifesting to my soul:
Discarnate air for what is truth -
swept off as down from lion - tooth !
All is ciphered to maroon
through an eye I cannot keep,
from the valleys of the moon
nothing has occurred but sleep ;
weightless as in slumber laid
I see the earth unnamed, unmade….
From Towards Atman
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