Murmurs
I gather in the scarred
and broken forms,
the lipped imperfections
that score the wind
to give voice to an evening.
I see through the lesions
that open to a stillness
into which the universe
whispers its unfolding.
I feel the awe,
the sheer enormity
that confronts the senses
as all that is
opens into endlessness,
the mind wilting
at its door,
leaving only these hands
to shape offerings which,
like shells held to an ear,
echo only the faint murmurs
of what cannot
be contained.
Copyright © Paul Willason | Year Posted 2023
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