Entry 35 - Eew. I Got Poetry On Myself. And It's Not Washing Out.

Beautiful shadows in the still twilight

Old forests stand waiting in the quiet air,

Everything gone silent with the passage of blue smoke, winding its way through tree and stone

Breathing in…then out…

Slow ghosts wandering their way to another world

Everything still.

Here, I sit waiting too.

Wishing I could reach out and touch the ephemeral

Its mystery living in each rock, fern, and leaf.

Built on a subtle rhythm humming like electricity all around.

Life.

So still. So quiet. Even the bouncing molecules of air stop and listen. Waiting.

Fading light. Drifting currents of smoke down the mountain, cold finders against the harsh angles of jutting stone. Silky colors slipping down with the sun.

Breathing. Waiting.

Motionless earth, stopped in it turn. Time cocks its head to hear something faint, like music, flowing with the patterns of light.

Gentle music.

Music that doesn’t make a sound, but rumbles in vibration against the skin of the world.

And the air thickens.

It comes closer, like something wild, like something purring and sitting on my hands. I can reach out to stroke it. And the music curls up inside me.

Like joy that fades with the last of the light.

Leaving me alone, cradled in the deep blue shadows.