Soul keeps unfolding inward,
the body leaves the body.
A wealth you cannot imagine
flows through you.
Do not consider what strangers say.
Be secluded in your secret heart-house,
that bowl of silence.
Talking, no matter how humble-seeming,
is really a kind of bragging.
Let silence be the art you practice.
Rumi
A poem found its way into my journal, and its title is “Like Fallen Leaves”
“Like Fallen Leaves”
Leaves are like dreams,
they spring into existence,
to populate the tree,
they dwell in every branch,
they dwell in every twig,
so dreams invade our lives,
our entire existence,
they dwell in our minds,
in the chambers of the heart,
and depth of our soul.
But some leaves have a short life span,
some get torn off from a storm,
or serve as food for small crawling friends,
and as those leaves,
some of our dreams are not long-lived,
its effects ware off too soon,
and they never come to be,
as they wither and collapse,
much before its time.
The remaining leaves,
the ones that manage to stay on the tree,
are vigilant, alive, nourishing themselves,
providing comfort, shade beauty, and life,
to all forms of life,
and as those leaves,
our dreams,
the ones truly nested and settled in the heart,
provide us with such joy, enthusiasm,
and so much zest for life.
Fallen leaves are like dreams,
they share similar roles,
one comes to feed and nourish the ground,
the other comes to feed and nourish the soul,
and just like our dreams,
that need time to incubate and prepare before birth,
fallen leaves remain on the ground,
and under the heavy mantle of snow,
they wait and re-invent themselves,
to re-emerge once again in the onset of spring.
Now I know I can wait...
sleep on them,
before their birth.
Fallen leaves are like dreams...
Copyright Ingrid Ieva