The Dance
There is a sentence
waiting to be spoken,
a thought given
to the morning to find
a voice when all is still
and each sound
lifts above the quiet
like prayer.
I hear the water
murmuring incantations
over rocks, insects deep
in throated shadows reciting
their repetitive chants
and inside the isolation
of an ear, a pulse
counting out my life
in heartbeats.
What can I assemble
to place on the doorstep
of understanding,
what insight can I wrestle
from these sounds
before they thin
and seep
into an infinite silence
when it seems
that all of creation
is dancing joyously
around its rim.
Copyright © Paul Willason | Year Posted 2024
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