There is a silence in the art, pure of any speech or sound; the depth of stillness runs deep.

Stillness...
From which all movement comes.
A sense of connectedness,
Deep in practice.
Not sleep...
But a sibling none the less.
Both a leaving,
A sense of going home.
To where we were before.
Where we ruturn.
Once our light passes the final veil.

I love this

The stillness of a cabin just before it's inhabitants, arise to make the coffee and consume the cakes

Like a breakfast mess of scrambled eggs, so I am mixed, and stirred by this, the stillness found within this place

Like a body of water, asleep at last

Or a wooded edge on a logging trail, finally left to be and pass

So I am also alive and well, inside of these hemlock boards

And for but a moments time at peace

In a place where I can forget my more modern sensibilities

And be taken back to a different time and a different place, where the woods still held their persuasive sway

A power over me

How they'd cast a spell upon my mind, most every time, when I was not as tall as these

Outside and near a different cabin, built by the hands of my father for free

But now, as I look out through the window, it's there I see

Out back, by a semi circle cleared of trees

The stillness found in this good morning, in a different cabin, I am at ease

From the gentle curve of her subtle wrist
To the slenderness of her hand
Placed within
My own already hers in mind
It is there within the frozen moment
Which I am reminded of the absence
The lack of time
To communicate this distant feeling
And the stillness within this state of mind
For a centimeter is not even a half of an inch
But an eternity
Which is no small distance
To be separated from such a mind