Even on a perfectly still morning, nothing moving, trees frozen into the ground, sky frozen to itself, still, (how is this?) here you are, burgeoning into being, the roaring sun silent between the trees, (everyone I meet, your blossoming!) what is only just becoming humming in becoming, (the more still I am the more vibrant it is) everything thrumming with you and the silence of your delight, your anticipation of what even you, even now, are just discovering, —oh look!— just becoming.
__________________ Steve Garnaas-Holmes Unfolding Light www.unfoldinglight.net
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