On the loom of beyond,
white cockatoos appear,
threads of innocence bathed in sunlight,
gathering seeds of quiet abundance,
each morsel a gift of plenty.
A hinge sighs—
no hawk, no storm,
yet the weave shivers,
the air stirs with a flurry of wings,
as if ghosts had risen from the soil,
and peace, and innocence scatter.
Spooked.
Oh, dear human mind,
so proud of your cleverness,
so convinced of your strength,
startled by a phantom’s echo—
a whisper, a shadow, a sound misplaced,
a moment long gone,
a ghost of the past
still breathing,
echoing across lifetimes,
commanding chemistry like an old general:
adrenaline, cortisol,
the familiar orchestra of alarm.
And calm and reason fly
out of the safe confines,
out of the guarded sanctum of the mind.
Spooked.
Yet, the loom abides.
Belief by belief,
the innocence of the white cockatoos returns,
thread by thread repairing the design of truth.
The trickster of the past is transformed by silent grace,
revealing a smile,
opening the gates to bliss,
fed by the truth of what never was—
Spook!