Everything has cycles. This one I’m in is passing.

Meaning, that as I gather around the fire with the poets and musicians, when the circle rounds to my turn, I pass.

By my side there may be a folder full of fresh poetry I’ve never read, but one scan of the headlamp light over printed pages, and nothing’s deemed necessary. No words from me yearn to be brought to air.

I rest in curious terrain. Observing in this quiet passive place.

Maybe the bucket is being lowered deep into the well, leaving only the echoed sound of liquid sloshing in its cavern. Here peace reverberates without naming.

I soak in the respite of this wordless phase. I know, it too, will inevitably pass.

photo courtesy of echiner1
photo courtesy of echiner1

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s