Winter darkness. Rain. No crickets singing.

You lean toward nonexistence,

but have not yet become it entirely.

For this reason, you can still be praised.

 

The tree unleafing enters your dominion.

An early snowfall shows you abide in all things.

 

Your two dimensions are line and inclination.

Therefore desire,

though it incinders each mote of its object, itself is spare.

 

The late paintings of Turner

prove your slender depths without limit.

The beauty too of shakuhachi and cello.

 

“Winter darkness. Rain. No crickets singing.”

—You are there, pulling hard on the rope-end.

 

(Jane Hirshfield )

 

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Wonderful textures by glitzy, SkeletalMess & una cierta mirada

Done