Dropping the anchor,
To try to find the middle ground.
Down into the “I don’t know” rather than the forms.
There is a hesitation.
In the chest, a question is uncovered.
Is it true?
Grounded in my abdomen,
I see that this turning inward, is just as vast and nebulous
As launching outward.
Opening to where I am, now
At this table writing, and listening.
The weight of this body sitting here on the chair changes
and a fragile silence appears
that is louder than me or you.
Breathing in and out,
in profound exchange.
Of emptying and filling
Silence and sound.
While navigating varieties of lost.
The light in the room shifts and
My abdomen is trying to tell me something
But the language is lost in the process
Of trying to find the right words.
E.B. White writing in his boathouse