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I write because I’ve learned to notice

the breathing stillness of antique peach roses,

and the curve of the water’s ellipse

in which they rest.

White candles burn wisely, the glass table slightly moves,

my pen leaves traces of blue ink in the form of

wet coupled words.

The timeless echo of slow moving minutes saturates skin,

stillness of sound washes through

between the fridge hum

and the wisps of clouds sitting

weightless

in a denim blue sky

un-wavering in place and purpose.

When I am a writer,

I remember to pause, raise transparency to my lips

wetness of water sitting peaceful

in that glass.

Loneliness becomes solitude, solitude worth savoring. This won’t last forever.

Eyes gaze out across the room

Beyond a zebra rug

to the deep outline of forest green dancing along the windowsill

Nakedness of free-form cascading leaves plentiful to an ivy soul.

A houseplant’s hue illuminated by late afternoon spring sun

tracking west.

While buildings cast shadows. February becoming May.

We write because things have a way of becoming fluid again. The both-and, instead of the either-or. So that hindsight can hold the days of withered leaves, silent and still, a sunken volume of antique purple petals, and see them with eyes gently awakened by our equal parts delicate, equal parts profound, humanity. To know the candle holder’s aqua blue bumpy glass, melted wax draping itself down, sitting quiet with fluted edges that rest in brass, carrying with it the echo of white candles past. Because of the guidance of a Lady Quan Yin photo that sits there steady, a golden face with wise lips slightly upturned, as if to say to us in each wavering moment, not to worry, that Divine beings hold us in their palm even on the mind’s most questioning days. Because ecstasy seems to live on both ends of the spectrum. Because the silence of rain in the street outside a city apartment window has a feel, a texture, a sound.