Our light is quietly filling the gap
between what we know and can’t say.
It drifts out in every direction:
born of a thought
propelled by a thought
a thought of compelling silence
an intuition of immediate presence
moving in tandem with birth and death
arriving and departing through the same portal.
A thin stream of smoke, barely visible,
is it even there, this rumor of life —
why is it so precious?
If words are the world, then we’d be wise
to hold our tongues — this gentle breeze
is a sky-tongue tasting us, testing
our light to see if we’re ready.
There’s a bridge between the world
and the sky, birds cross back and forth,
souls cross back and forth, words will not —
they are too weighed down with meanings
of things, with rumors of light, of light
that quietly falls through the gap
between whatever we know
and yet still can’t say.
Our hands are folding open now
like a prayer without any words.
The world has changed but nobody notices.
They are crossing a sky bridge composed
of a thought, a thought like some rumor
folding open, releasing light which shines
for a few precious moments before
quietly, quietly drifting away.