Let me pause in this still place
That the words I built my house with have come crashing down around me.
I step over the rubble and stand on a hill where the wind blows,
Blessed wind that will eventdually carry it all away,
And say nothing.
I’m at a point where I scribble and tangle wires together. Sometimes I paint or string beads, but mostly I scribble.
Scribbling is a state of mind that allows me to idle. I’m awake and aware, prepared to flow like calligraphy, but not yet.
Because the pre-event horizon is a power point.
A place where the boundaries of Now, expand: tomorrow is a flash I see clearly when my eyes shift.
Or when I scribble.
So I scribbled a wire tree on a green and white stone.
And I curled up amongst its roots,
It’s strong and thirsty roots.
I miss the particular curve of your smile
And the way your shoulders shook when you laughed.
I miss your fingerprints, rivers of spirit.
I have recordings of your voice.
I wish you were here.
There is so much I would have done differently.