What comes when the search ends
and every purposeful intent, busily
attentive toward some known,
to crack the ice of time, when
being itself seems to reach
a hand?
*
Denial, so smitten by the rough
hand of progress, will insist
that this is the axis of a turn,
but nothing has changed.
*
In this sunlit absence, here
is a space again, and it––
or I, or both, sighs
an audible breath,
the hush of shoreline,
a lapping this, and it
glimmers at the edge
of language.
I know this of which you write so beautifully, this that can never be described … but itself makes the valiant attempts.
Amaya, thank you for this gift of your generous reading.
Devine!
Love those last two lines!
Bartholomew, thank you!