3:2

sometimes

  wind carries

whispers of confusion

across paintings

of color

       and

sand

maps dissolve

certainties scatter

and names

once carried

           fall quiet

and what

           was told

                  thins

            What remains

when nothing

holds?

within the quiet

a blind man dances

to the whiteness

melting into

the morning

rising

we kneel

at the serpent tree

and drink from empty shells

and hum

until the rhythm

of the day

loosens

and

we begin

to let go