Sanding Still

The earth hums,

beneath the roots.

A language of shadow. 

Dust, 

each grain a word.

Too small to grasp. 

Each breath

of hesitation.

Between the old, 

and the 

forgotten. 

The sky fractures 

into a thousand pieces.

Not one,

fit together.

Whilst clouds

curl like smoke.

They do not rise,

only do they fold

back into themselves.

Carrying stories they refuse to tell.

A stone sits heavy. 

Its skin worn smooth by times

of quiet insistence.

No meaning in the smoothness, 

only absence of the name. 

The weight of being 

without the promise

of becoming.

Wind shivers 

through the grass. 

Though it moves, 

It leaves no trace.

As if a touch,

were to lose it forever. 

As if to know it 

was to unmake it.

In the silence, between the noises. 

Have I been standing still,  

or did the world simply forget 

how to spin? 

Either answer,

I cannot think of anything more beautiful.