Into being.

pebbles on beach against sky during sunset

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.

Author: Stacey C. Johnson

I keep watch and listen, mostly in dark places.

5 thoughts on “Lumen”

  1. I know this of which you write so beautifully, this that can never be described … but itself makes the valiant attempts.

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