Washed out grasses, ungathered leaves,
I catch my mind in the vague evening light
and listen to the stream running along the path.
It's here all the time.
It’s only some days
I come to hear.
Dusty threads trail, sticky mess in my eyes.
I clear them and begin again
silken patterns skeined into being.
Something shifts, awareness like
the hips of a woman who bears child,
always that little bit more open.
There's a wind picking up branches and twirling them fiercely.
Black birds blown off-course, squawking and struggling.
The day balanced between two full moons.
Clouds move silently, unperturbed,
above all this wind and tidal pull,
having learnt to surrender to the breath
moving them through the blue.
