April

I listen to the still house,

The birds calling in the morning fog,

The world swelling in my mind,

Taking hold of my senses.

 

It takes incredible willpower to allow these entrances.

So often I am pulling threads from myself,

Stretching them out over the earth to fill it

And be seen in bright colors, expertly woven.

 

Today I will be called again to say something,

But this morning I make myself empty and become everything,

The boundary between myself and the world

Like a kitchen doorway on a hinge,

 

Freely opening and closing to mingle the smells

And allow the meal to be prepared and delivered.