Days
There are days granted
when an unhurried still settles
the space where the world
binds to what is you
and folds the sense of difference
into a seamless whole.
Speech becomes the whisperings
of leaves, raindrops,
forest murmurs in the tall trees.
Touch is in the tendrils
of a vine, waving in air in search
of an anchoring branch
and sight, the composite
of every living eye into
an almost infinite view.
There is no boundary
to distinguish at what point
being becomes something
other than all until sadly
it falls asleep and once again
disintegrates into a dream
and a separate you.
Copyright © Paul Willason | Year Posted 2024
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