gullsoar slow winterbreeze
wintertrees branchetching blue sky
and milkstain clouds oozing eastward

no meaning message word
can hold as if it were a thing
as these things hold
a morning a timespace

in all this stillness
(even movement is still)
the throb the pulse
plucked strand of an infinite web
anchored everywhere

far away high waters crash
here silence crashes
one sound the true name of god