Writing things I cannot say

I’m the one who lights her mind on filaments of nothing. Thus I can hold some of your soul in my mind. As we weave tinsel on high days and sift ground things on ordinary days.

I’m the one who raised them from seeds. I made them awareness beings.

Though I am not the myth you speak of in harsh tones nor am I wonder, I am mystery yes.

And like the bud that closes, as in a smile, and opens, as if with eyes that do not speak any more, I am cocooned here.

There are beautiful views: of fragile things that do not speak. Small sounds that flight my thoughts outside.

If I wrote it all down. And out. Then would I say: I’m a writer?

For if this is all there is, it would have been too little and so much I would weep for absence and loss, and unexpected gifts beyond the infinites of reach and wishing wells. This is wonder.

Yet all there is: all these moments bring me here and thus. My heart is open and still.  My mind lights itself, on small things.

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