Asleep.
Awake.
The soft space between
allures me,
eludes me.
Yet I wait
not quite breathless
for a wave
to arise,
for creativity to coalesce
from the stillness alive
before formation
of ordinary perception.
I practice.
I practice.
Gently wondering toward the words
that want to voice
what’s underneath
the weather, the chores, the choosing what to eat for breakfast today.
