I know the quietest way to conjure a stir.
The heated carpet
beneath my face
strewn in the light
through the openings of the blinds,
blinded as I look to source
and upon my closed eyes
that escape my attempted gaze,
you used to do the same,
shifting with each attempted capture.
About the stir…
it ran deep
I know this silence and slow observation
as a gift, in time.
The same as the smell of juniper berries crushed into my hands
The way my skin retracted at the first submersion into cold water,
gasping for air
after being held below
a little too long,
long enough to slow down...in silence.
The stir of my desire to “be” again,
to gain an understanding of why
the stir of life,
the sublime of silence,
the way life becomes a birth
into something unrecognizable
and, yet, a force unforgettable
because when I listen to silence
I feel the stir
listening for feelings of what it is to know,
to trust that in silence comes clarity,
in silence comes
the waves of breath and the smell of budding life
breathlessly breaking through the blinds
as my face lies warm against the ground
soaked in solar seduction
a silence that reminds me to receive and to allow.