A way of knowing

is the choice to believe

there is a realm beyond,

as real and rough as Redwood bark,

as strong as Hazels wind.

But frail,

bending,

bowing to the choosing.

Without,

that realm is beyond our sensing.

Nothing to see.

Has no scent.

Is silent, all.

But,

choice made,

the deaf hear It

as a Tibetan Gong.

The blind know Its rainbow.

Its textures,

Its rough iron ridges,

Its silky smooth skin,

Its desert dune sand

are known to the touch.

And in the celebration of Communion with Its saints,

the wine is sweet on the tongue

and in the broken bread

abides the mustard seed,

the ingredient for salvation.

Through impenetrable steel,

freely flows the Spirit,

as The Colorado through The Canyon,

on to The Sea of Cortez,

into the secret deeps of The Southern Sea,

where Humpback and Blue

are due

to harmonize with

Soul.