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Quietly the old lake
leans against the land,
rubbing a shoulder
along the pebbles, water-worn,
sun-warm. The lips of the ripples
mouth old secrets. Their edges
lend the shore a small silver. Stolid,
the gray stones move a little
in the glancing light.

But we, waiting for
the Great Appearing, will we
listen and learn — we who gingerly
walk the rough border
where he walked?
Ankle-deep in water lapping
over the boulders, sharp, hot
in the sun, can we feel with our feet
the narrow margin
and sense the need to stand
firm, without retreat to the path
worn smooth by passing tourists?
Why do we gaze down,
still searching for footholds?
When will we be ready
to look up, to rise at the call
of the rising Light?

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 Portland Breakwater Light | Bug Light Park | South Portland
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~   Vincent Van Gogh  

(via likethemountvins)

 
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Opaque  by  andbamnan