The Cacophony of Roots and Rise

A poem

The morning, still, silent.

An absence of something I did not know I have,

wish I had.

Across emptiness, still, silent.

Fullness is present,

it is not that I had.

Do not have.

Boiling bulwark, here the sun, almost.

I am the morning.

It is not that I had,

I have.

The stillness, growing, grow,

gone.

Not gone. Overgrown,

we become.

And she said to me,

the morning,

as she held me

as she let me go—

‘Knowing is release

and letting go is finding

oneself. Not oneself,

ourself.’

The day.

The morning.

The dancers.

The dance.

We—the stillness,

the verve,

the cacophony of roots and rise

of reclamation and rest—

dance.

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