Even the yogis take a rest on Sundays.

On Saturday I vacuumed corners, wiped baseboards and dusted off my stone collection.  Caught up on correspondence and paid some bills.  I wrote about worms squirming in compost.  I strategized my health plan.

Sunday morning, in the rising light, there’s wind in the leaves of the hibiscus.  Birds are singing to pink and grey-blue sky.  It is quiet but for the rustling of tree limbs.  Jeb still sleeps and I simply sit.

There are plenty of words.  An overflowing fountain for a lifetime.  For now I am hushed by the sweeping of gusts.  I am so small.  Resting in the vast emptiness of the wordless.