Silence, a thick Afghan blanket, settles
heavy at first. Scratchy too. Left idle
for some time.
On tip toes it warms spaces
between bent knee and elbow.
I curl into it. Settling.
Soon, it sits. Natural as beat
of melting icicles to tunes of chimes.
Each morning I release arms
to sky. A form, of one world,
within all others.
Sometimes I spy
clouds turn. An atmospheric mobile
around, around,
mountains, trees and me. Frozen still.
A thick Afghan blanket settles.
A breathe. Air rushes down arms,
hands, fingers to pockets.
The return rolls over,
new, crescent, quarter, gibbous
as if I walked the world with ear plugs.
This lunar cycle blazons return
to when clock hands sit
always on rush hour.
Fingers in pockets. Eyes close. Settling.
Clouds continue to turn.
