The Visitors

The mist is absorbed into my lungs
My flesh burns
My forehead and mouth tingle
"They are back," I realize

They float gracefully about me
Smoothly transitioning in and out of forms
In and out of dimensions peaking into this one
They surround me, swirling about me
I'm in the center of a wildly mystical merry-go-round
They visit as smoky figures here and there
"Why are you here?" I ask, "What do you want?"

They do nothing but encircle me
Make their presence known
They are silent
No message to share
No request
They simply peer into this world and leave

Sometimes I wonder if they enter through my atrium
And exit through my arteries
My heart feels sensations of deep but beautiful grief
The kind of grief an artist feels when they are creating a transcendental piece
Emphatically makes love to the transitory where fall shall dethrone trees and winter shall weep
The kind of grief when the gentle brush of life sweeps into my most despairing places and cleanses my heartache
The kind of grief when saying goodbye to a great love wakes me into the invigoration of absolute presence
Because there is no leaving someone who was never there
And the earth trembles with radiance and an aliveness that creeps into my every pore

They tune me into their world
"I see you," I whisper
I feel like you want something from me, so I offer you tea
Am I a poor listener
Am I dense
All these years visitors for reasons unknown
Perhaps I am too complicated to understand the tradition
A visitor is always welcomed and not to be questioned
I should be grateful for their stay.