“ . . . I did not even try to explain anything to myself,
so strong was the impression of the vast,
unknown fields opening up before me.”

— G.I. Gurdjieff

How easily the old table moves
to the touch of our family of hands.
Alone, or in pairs,
we only gather here to partake in the ritual of food.
Travelers in the history of a day’s work.

Only on special evenings at those perfect times
each year when we all meet
do the spoons and bowls get their chance
to dance. And the still and starry night
outside those ancestral rooms sits cross-legged
in the lotus of the heavens in trance.

With age we learn to rise above our needs.
To make do with a good meal and a wish.
To watch carefully how the pendulum swings
in the corner on the old clock. And
the way the candle flickers from its own breath
on an evening without wind.

For a million years we have gathered like this
around the tables made of rock and of wood.
In families. Raising our voices in prayer.
Talking to the men and women of night. Until
the sun comes up over the mountains.
And we dream of perfect islands of love,
and are there.