Saturday, July 22, 2006


Blending, smoke into ashes, aye:
"Older than the rocks on which she sits"
And what of that? Between the here
and now, the silence and the waking,
we walk between all worlds, soft, silent.

No lines, nor borders, just movement
so subtle it seems like nothing moves
but everything changes, water flowing
in a river, eddies blurring into each other
and for the change, nothing is lost.

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