Lately, dying a little with each line. This intangible text unravels its hand at my expense. And speaking of hands, put yours over my mouth . . because there is little left to say in the land of lessening. I am no longer fostering who I was. J e s s I c a .
Winter is a deficit. In darkness like this, a single shaft of light empowers motes and hearts to take flight. The unseen becomes known. And the world is saved from itself – migrating between what is there and what is not. The impersonal circumstances of what never was unbuilds itself for self's sake.
cross-legged for hours
telling no thing
Each snow flake is adding, adding . . . yet I see that everything is already here. The seeker falls down on top of the finder. We pile into winterscape's seamless white. The Holy Now, unavoidable.
Such is allowable peace.
The warm teacup against my chest.
Lightfall in slants across the wood floor.
A chance to bow before a bear's heart.
Each word, fraught with motion, slaying me unto One.