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The Journey

by David Whyte

Above the mountains

the geese turn into

the light again


Painting their

black silhouettes

on an open sky.


Sometimes everything

has to be

inscribed across

the heavens


so you can find

the one line

already written

inside you.


Sometimes it takes

a great sky

to find that


first, bright

and indescribable

wedge of freedom

in your own heart.


Sometimes with

the bones of the black

sticks left when the fire

has gone out


someone has written

something new

in the ashes of your life.


You are not leaving.

Even as the light fades quickly now,

you are arriving.

Where Many Rivers Meet

by David Whyte

All the water below me came from above.

All the clouds living in the mountains 

    gave it to the rivers

who gave it to the sea, which was their          dying.

And so I float on cloud become water,

central sea surrounded by white                     mountains,

the water salt, once fresh,

clouds fall and streams rush, tree root and       tide bank

leading to the rivers' mouths

and the mouths of the rivers sing into the         sea,

the stories buried in the mountains

give out into the sea

and the sea remembers 

and sings back

from the depth

where nothing is forgotten

Worn Edges

by Emilie Lygren

Slick-backed rocks once ripped from

mountainsides, pieces of glass,

broken off branches of trees

and so many small pieces of earth 

all roll to the river. They are

given to the constant working currents,

the blue undersides of streams,

to mud unstuck from banks and wed 

to clear movement.

Here, water, such a

patient teacher,

reduces rough edges into roundness,

sands sticks into gleaming,

bare swards, holds stones until 

their shapes converge.

Stay here long enough

and the parts of you, too,

that have been broken

will be rubbed smooth.

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