Sometimes the silence is within
as if there were no wind
or the universe stops, holds its breath
and I step through my skin
becoming light and color and butterfly.
I am swallowed by the moment,
the hands of trees
the prayers of cranes.
It is hard to climb back into the limits
of flesh
and feet that need a ground to walk on.
Small holes remain, the residue
of light-burns that poems slip through,
these exhalations tumbling from
the fingers of the divine.
photo: n.m.rai
