THIS.

There is this morning
soft soundings in silence
a choir quietly assembling
singing and sighing
rustling gently by
feathering the light
flowing the curtains
soft as this flower petal
that just now dropped
elegantly to the floor
over there by my door.

This is the delicate
musings of life
seen, then heard no more.
Still, this living sound
awaits, without waiting
here, and there, seen, and unseen
not different from this ground
that one is,
this silvan silence
this pastoral palate
this beingness of silence.

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