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
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
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.