A tilt in time and my life spills into age. It grows on me, age. Although I have addressed it with a soft touch to the cheek, I embrace neither time nor age. Regardless, both rest in my heart beating out of its confines and wait to be seized by that, which holds all: my origin, my home.

In deep and low breath I taste life. And I sink further into life. It grips me, not with cold hands, but with the caring urgency of one who mothers patience in every cell. I taste a morsel, then, fall to the chase as I stir and wake, and wake and stir.  No reckless raid or sweep, only a careful scrutiny veiled in the robes of a novice and consumed by the possibility that this is it.

Light on, window frames, light on moon and man and the tip of. A paper thin sliver of light. I see it merely because I know the hush of light on light like any traveler in timeless time. No piece did I learn or attain. There is no teaching in this vastness that isn’t already known. And though I sense rain, nothing washes out light

, and despite my curtains drawn on days, light never begs or burns for entry. How may I house light, if the same presence already marks every part of me?