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.
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