Sometimes I linger too long
sitting on my hands,
my head slightly tipped right
and eyes closed.
Great peace here,
the “not thinking”.
Or at least, that’s what I call it.
Really, it’s the “not feeling.”
Do other people go through life like this,
each breeze a message, each drip of light
running down the clawed cedar tree
each hawk stroke swirling open
a window in the sky?
It’s not that I do not love the ever-present
ecstasy of such things—
it’s just that in such constant Union,
there is still this part of me that awakens,
and looks back.
Lot’s wife, minute by minute,
because she can hear the cries behind her,
cannot quite breach
Not salt in the ocean—
just salt, preserving it all.