Our light spreads 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, coming and going
through these same portals.
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.
Everything’s changed yet nobody notices.
They are crossing a sky bridge composed
of a thought, like some rumor folding open,
releasing light which shines for mere moments
before quietly, quietly drifting away.