healing its body-self,
reaching out of inner extremes
to the weather;
standing upon this ball
balancing,
each with our stretch
sounding an infinite distance:
an eternal broadening moment.
All that is,
all matter,
is as Tao's empty vessel
in open capacity,
waiting:
yawning potential of genius,
ripe,
for fulfilment;
existence,
like the touch
of thistledown
upon deepest canyon sound
of water,
still water,
listens to the voicing of stars
by night crickets;
this insula in the mist
extending and contracting
with each drift.
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