Cross legged I sit,
on mountains of wisdom;
a cushion of reality.
Truths bejeweled on tree tops,
like golden apples ripe as ripe can be,
a breeze away from falling.
The morning sky flushed a dusty pink,
with brushstrokes of a happy, happy yellow,
an alliance of colour.
The sun perches on the landscape,
ruling the lands in it’s midst,
a welcomed surrender.
Tall I stand with grounded roots,
all is well;
all is well.
The Cabinet of Heed 