Stillness

The more I sit quiet, the more I realize

stillness isn’t static.

It is the horizon of the

rising sun and setting moon,

all that lies unborn in-between.

 

Words write themselves out of

this space into expression.

The lyre was invented here.

 

I close my eyes, step out of time, the physics of arrival

to breathe without chatter, to savor

a foreign tempest of darkness

swirling with inchoate

possibility,

 

pulsing pregnant. Weightless

I tumble inward, even beyond breath

towards beauty called by new

names.


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