Moon at Half Past Noon

The mind, a river, carving through night’s hush,
Its swift currents shaped by echoes that brush.
We chase swift thought, like leaves in fall’s swift rush,
And miss the source – the pure, unyielding blush.

But pause – what breathes beneath this ceaseless flow?
A presence ancient, more than dreams bestow,
Where boundaries fade, like sand where waters go—
Is this the Self, past all that we undergo?

Not yours, not mine – this boundless, seamless sky,
No thinker here to claim or reason why.
Just watching clouds in dawn’s first golden eye,
The mountain’s truth in the lake’s serene reply.

Thought’s vibrant fire can build or can destroy,
A double-edged sword, our curse and our joy.