when you sense how to listen

When all thoughts

Are exhausted

I slip into the woods

And gather

A pile of shepherd’s purse.

Like the little stream

Making its way

Through the mossy crevices

I, too, quietly

Turn clear and transparent.


I can’t recall how it was before the silence….

inquiry for today~ this messiness is served by quiet…..

what is alone?

Awake in the mother night,

I sit for hours

as she silently turns above me.

One lone elk bugles

in the starry darkness.

Blessed solitude

~Roshi Joan Halifax

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