This landscape,
Forgotten.
Your needing to know,
Needing certainty
That’s what you were sold,
That’s what you were told.
The language giving defining to that which
Had yet to be written,
Experienced by the senses that wrote the meaning.
To know the world,
To interpret the other,
Without word.
The knowing senses,
Feel into the breeze,
Listen to the rustle of the trees,
As moved by the waters,
Propelled by the moon that rises,
And the flight of the morning bird
As she flutters by,
Stirring earth to rise,
Flowers perk,
Sun takes notice,
It is time now to be,
High in the sky of that which illuminates.
Notice the falling light,
How it paints highlights,
Marks the moments,
But ever changes.
Here there is only this.
Arriving,
You breathe,
The rhythms of that move in.
This landscape too informed by other than
Knowing and defining.
When was the last time you were involved with all
That effortlessly moves you?
There,
The trust and surrender that I will rise again tomorrow.
I may fall,
But I will rise,
Yet what informs of tomorrow,
When in this moment,
It all has changed,
The certainty renegotiated in the changing landscape,
The light lessens,
Highlights become lowlights,
The stirring to wake,
Becomes stirring to sleep,
And will you wake,
The belief in tomorrow.
Or will you rise,
And meet the moment
To notice –
The breeze rustling through …
Julia Stolk ©