The revolving stars

run their show in outer space --


without a juggler.

I see the late and the early
people in lighted rooms
where the curtains are not closed

I see men in the twilight
penumbra of the morning
talking on the benches

in the circle of the square
that then starts singing
in the trees that live there

Everything keeps going on
from yesterday to tomorrow
without beginning and end

There is no direction
everything's going by itself
its divine way

I breathe calmly and

open myself to you, whom --


I do not know yet.

This week, I remembered how to hold things gently-
how to sit in a sunlit room with laughter
and not flinch at the brightness.

I made time.
Not borrowed, not stolen, not carved from guilt,
but real time-
offered with open hands
to people who make me feel like more than a body on a schedule.

There were hours that didn’t apologize for passing,
moments that asked nothing from me but presence.
I gave what I had, and still had something left.
Even joy. Even peace.

This week didn’t ask me to survive it.
It let me belong to it.

And now,
at the edge of it all,
I’m quietly afraid-
that I will look back on these days
from some far-off place
where time slips like water,
and wonder if this was just
a rare breath
before the drowning begins again.

Everything is just right.
Everything is as it should be.
Everything is fine—

Even when it hurts.
Even when it heals.
Even when it doesn’t feel that way.

Feeling the quiet rise
Of true essence,
Silent power, steady and pure.

Splashing consciousness on my mind
It calms the soul,
And stirs the darkness within
To be seen, not feared.