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.
