A voice from far away, my voice, but one I haven't heard in a long time, faint and fading but it can be heard by listening carefully, tipping my head, ears alert. There. Barely. Like CPE says "behave yourself - barely".
I like that.
And so does the echo of the girl who knew.
The girl who flew.
The child with wide eyes
and truth, no lies.
The being pure and sweet,
to be and love, not to compete.
A young soul, growing, knowing, being;
not blinded by cruelty or pain, seeing.
Oh so clearly she saw.
I see her there.
I hear her care.
Her face of love
and voice of softly floating dove
on wings so white and pure,
to cleanse away all we endure.
The path now clear and clean.
A trail of peace between
us as we step lightly,
onto its soft pad glowing brightly.
I hear her voice as she calls.
I see her face in awe.
She is not small,
only seen that way
through the echo of her way
that has come and gone.
There, but not.
Here, but not.
Echo strong but fades.
Carried upon the non-wind, the ether.
Comes back from all around,
from earth and sky and ground.
I return until I am one once more with the echo that is no longer an echo but a part of me, blending, creating, we join together until we are One.
Until I am Whole.
The echo now is of the future, not the past, because I have reclaimed the echo from that which was and only the call of that which will be can be heard faintly, calling.
But she lives in the now, the present, I can touch her and see her and feel her - we move together and live together and love as One so that the echo of future is not real and can't feel.
No more of lostness, but of what has been found and of what has been set aside.
And even that, the soon-to-be-echo of lostness set aside, transforms from echo to a sigh to a wisp on the air, carried upon the wings of a will-o-the-wisp to the ocean where it is absorbed into the Source once more.
Only clearness. Brightness.
Sparkling and shimmering is the air all around.
Sharp with love's grandeur, I hear the sound.
I feel the openness, the acceptance, the forgiveness.
Because we are not alone or separate.
The blade of grass that spikes beneath my toe reminds my skin to tickle my heart and envelop my soul with laughter.
The crow that sits upon the branch, cleaning a wing as dark as night but shiny as an ebony satin shawl that surrounds and loves and protects and brings the shelter once more, not once more because never not here, only appearing 'as if' ...
the mystical echo that was.