Glisten

It's a trance,

where the scenery becomes no more than

colors and sensation:

the glistening water-- merely glisten

the sound of birds-- only sound

sweetness without fullness,

an empty depth

a turning inward.

It's moving so slowly here--

the breeze on the lake

the air from my lungs

the trees toward sky

It is calmer than the calm we learn to distrust.

Softer than a lover's breath in your ear.

More meaningful than the profound, dignified silence of empty rooms.

I'm writing with a pen that feels broken,

gathering together spare parts I always felt belonged.

They say,

all matter in the universe is expanding, pulling apart.

I used to feel that way too.

Now, I feel myself coming back together.

Each glisten and sound,

upward pulling tree

inward reaching sigh

--together.