This is the house of Love, which has no bound nor end.

New Year’s Eve

Before the end, a sound
so like God’s silence
you could barely tell
there was a space between.

To look into your eyes, then,
was almost more than I could bear,
blown to pieces by the twilight bell
we bowed before, one cross-legged,
the other cradling a guitar
and sliding over the strings
as if this stillness were something
which could be spoken,
which could be summed up,
surmised, derived, disguised,
danced with the most simple steps,
like our soft song which swept
these clouds into a sacred circle,
the starlings and cicadas and slowed
down crickets still, stopped for a moment
before the beat we found beneath time,
a frequency formed in the emptiness
you strummed for our fading sun,
a cosine wave signed by every single
bouncing pulse since the beginning.

And before that too,
when we just sat in wonder,
an empty bowl and hollow wood
willing what is,
awake in this infinite hour where finally
we found each other and fell together
into a goldpink sky, gravity and time set free
by a small act of gratitude,
a moment of pure grace:


and the echoing call
of an old human chorus.