Quiet

It's quiet.

And few words slip past to
reach the fingers.

I write only what has
fallen.

Returning to the silence of
this poem.

`

It is quiet.

Always

Now  - a primordial state interrupted by moments of things heard and then a slow return to the hush that existed before the birth of time.

As often as possible - simply listen.

Let sounds go.

Continue to listen...until

silence is heard.

Peace,

Eric