At the edge of sound
Silence is absolute— for every word spoken, every prayer fervently whispered, and every curse flung out to the Wide is met with the enormity of Silence. It says nothing, yet all sounds arise from it, and all sounds die in it. It says nothing, nothing as all is, as is.
If words could set you free
These black lines on white are not bars, if you look long enough, they are doorways set ajar into Space
The world blurs into shimmering blobs of light, they bubble around me, and one by one they go— pop pop— bursting into the cold, dark night the warmth recedes My toes and fingers are cold I am cold so cold
I feel you wave in the shadows of dancing leaves, in the shiver of wild sugarcane, in the quiet scuffle under the bushes and the ripple of a still pond I see your white tail slip out the corner of my eye as if shy but always there, asking, Do you remember me? I open my palm…
The autumn rain falls sleepy on crinkled orange, strewn along the path, winding with no certain destination into the far horizon of the setting sun where fire meets fire and the world burns its wildest before the waning sun ushers cold slumber and all is covered in white sound
The word human
I, what is– ‘I’? I call myself the word ‘human’ But, what is human? Not the word but the thing itself? Am I the thing itself? Or that which says this is ‘I’? But, what says ‘I’? What is I? What is I? I, I, I, caw-caw, a crow crows.
I woke up a honeybee today
I woke up a honeybee today zipped and dunked into sweet lips, a kiss of gold dustings on my skin. I went about my nature with not a question in mind but swirling in movement and sensations, Softness Sweetness Scents and Oh! the buzz and buzz of my countryfolk
The bug scuttles across the pavement hints of red amidst the sheer wings head lifted proudly on spindly limbs. The sky seems lighter today, thin clouds— The bug scuttles back from whence it came, peaceful in its knowing unknown the span of the sidewalk.
A willow spills her joy
There in the glade, a willow spills her joy in the wind shaking left and right like a slow dream It spreads through the underbrush a hush, a spell that beckons and a roe nimbly floats through the soft curtain of quiet rain And I sit on a bench, entranced, a specter, ghostly figure who…
Innocence in want
How the wind plays into trees bending, breaking, and uprooting how it walks, crunching roofs of sweet homes, chasing butterflies and flops on its butt flattening fields of wildflowers How its innocence of wonder lay waste, unaware in want.