Open field.
Evening settles like snow.

Moon. Hard, shining as ice.
Only a sliver of the divine visible.

A hawk, gliding, greets me,
silent, noticing.

Stars, putting on their halos,
appear one by one.

The Great Stillness I can’t hear
says my name.

The cold deceives: I am not foreign here.
I am of this breath, sighing with clouds,

of this blood moving in the brook,
of these bones leafless above me.

The Great Stillness, who grants me
my umbilical warmth, holds me,

and sings her lullaby,
Rest and do nothing,

still as the trees. Let the snow fall.
You are mine. You belong.

Steve Garnaas-Holmes
Unfolding Light
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