Saturday, August 9, 2025, 50.5*, 78% RH,0616
BEFORE I TURNED OFF THE LIGHT
I fell into a dream.
An ancient pine bent down,
enfolded me
in prickly limbs
spoke with cavernous voice:
“There is a progression.
Stop struggling.
Stand still.
Life is enough
to make you bleed.
It doesn’t matter that it’s dark
or that your center is falling apart.
You stand on the edge
holding your golden thread.
I bequeath you my vision
for you have felt rain on your face.
You remember winds extracting your breath.
You know snow and what lies beneath.
You keep ashes in a cherry wood urn.
You listen when spirits speak.”
