In the lowing keep
When shelter becomes more than solidity
Something bright in darkness
Warmth when cold
In the clasp of your arms
Timbered voice, felling fear
All around us animals stir, unseen 
The switch of their fur, and meadow smell
As if time had laced herself backwards
We drift beneath spells
Your mercy is a red fruit at my throat
Throbbing against the thin trickle of hope
My eyes are dim in this evening
Where shadows appear to turn light footed 
Swaying in our attachment to the finite
When all around, creatures cease without word
And new are born to cover the empiness before she knew herself lost
We have no prescribed place, or capture
It is as if nothing has roots and like the tumbleweed
Rolling beneath the smoky clouds with hushed song
Lets go of all that can harm, the vast solemnity 
Of being

12 Replies to “Of Being”

  1. You delve beautifully into the natural world that surrounds us but that we can never truly understand. We are too close to the might bes and could have beens, and individual pain.

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