spinning while sitting still

the morning
was black
and speckled.

the morning
was blue.

the morning
was pink and purple,
violet
and breathless white.

the morning
was cold and
so too
is the day.

the morning
was hard.

the morning
was too easy.

the morning
was bent by
the softness
of heat.

the morning
burned
inside me.

the morning
was not
enough.

inside
the morning
i was not
enough.

the morning
changes
to day.

the day
is no less
easy.

the day
is no less
hard.

inside
the day,
bent
or rigid,
measurements
are still
the same,

“enough”,

“not
enough”.

the sun
rises
on its
particular path,
every day
a bit different.

from where
i sit
the sun
strikes me
in the eyes.
briefly,
the sun
flares
in my eyes.

i have not
moved,
i do not
move.

the sun
flares
and strikes
and i see
warbling air
all around me.

i do not
move

and
the sun
continues on.

i glance up,
the sun
glances down.

the air
warbles
all around me.

the sun
beams
all around me.

the space
all around us
is empty.

the space
all around us
is full
to bursting.

reflections in a streak of water, textured by a thin sheen of ice

Published by Zak

an intertidal island in an ocean of impermanence.

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