As If Nothing

"As If Nothing"

Sometimes,
life divides itself
into shadow and shadow—
a deep pit,
a darkened path.

Eyes reach,
gentle and unsteady,
grasping at people,
ideas,
thoughts pressed close,
only to be set aside,
feared, dismissed,
like petals carried
by a passing wind.

Pardon if words linger,
pouring softly, wandering,
like streams tracing the hills,
ramblings that confuse
yet hold the weight of meaning
for those who listen quietly.

Behind them—
the faint glow of beauty,
the steady pull of reality—
the heart turns,
seeks its own order,
and learns to rest,
softly awake,
if left unbothered.

Even in shadows,
even in fear,
a choice is made:
to fall, to walk,
to pause in the space between,
where the night stretches long
but stars remain.

Seeing you—
the heart corrects itself,
as a robe finds its proper drape
before the hush of morning.

No teaching spoken.
Still, the path straightens;
the feet remember
what the soul once knew.

Words fall from the mouth—
quietly radiant—
not chosen,
but breathed,
as blossoms open
when the moon loosens its hold.

Quietly radiant—
fruit ripens in silence,
sweetness arriving
not to be tasted,
but to prove the season true.

Some beauty does not seek a name.
It is a sign,
not the destination—
a lamp lit briefly
to show the road.

It restores order in the chest,
turns the dust of the heart to gold,
then leaves,
like the Beloved passing
close enough to wake you,
not close enough to stay. 

Sometimes I think—

let them keep their borrowed light,

for joy survives best

when untouched by my sight.

I know this truth, however kind,

to step too near is to unbind

the fragile peace that hearts defend,

and turn beginnings into ends. 

So I choose silence, soft and thin,

a careful art of not stepping in.

I draw my lines where shadows stay,

believing distance clears the way—

that limiting each word, each glance,

might quiet rumor, chance, or chance,

and cleanse intent of names unmeant,

until desire learns consent. 

Sometimes I think, if we should speak,

my thoughts would spill, no longer meek.

So pardon me if I appear

inspired beyond what’s proper here.

Is it your beauty, calm, or grace,

or love that lingers in that face?

No wonder such a glow, so rare,

is called strange by those unaware. 

For in these days, when careful minds

mistake the pure for poorly timed,

even the loveliest of words

are judged as shame, or thought absurd.

Yet what is strange in petals blown,

or twilight claiming sea alone?

Must all that passes softly through

be labeled fault for being true? 

I cannot deny—nor will I feign—

your presence stirred my quiet grain.

As though my thoughts, too long at rest,

rose briefly, then dissolved to mist.

Call it embarrassment, if you must—

yet what disgrace lies in the dust

of blossoms carried by the air,

or sunsets fading, unaware? 

If this be my last offered line,

let it be clean, without design:

I came, I felt, I let it go,

as all fine moments choose to flow.

No vow was sworn, no bond undone—

only the grace of having known

that once, before the light withdrew,

the heart was moved—and that was true.

She passed like dusk on river stone,

a breath of light, then I was alone.

Her scent—hyssop, wild and deep,

still lingers where the willows weep.

If I must go, then let me fade

beneath the bloom her hands once made.

No words remain, just silent rain

and rose that blossoms once, then wanes.

A blossom brushed across my chest,

a cherry flower—no time to rest.

I held her smile like morning sun,

but even spring must come undone.

If I must go, then let me fade

beneath the bloom her hands once made.

No words remain, just silent rain

and rose that blossoms once, then wanes.

Now folded hands and lowered gaze,

a prayer wrapped in the evening haze.

She never knew how much she stayed

in all the things I never said.

If I must go, then leave me near

the scent she left, still faint, still clear.

Let hyssop grow where I lie still—

its breath the echo of her will.