I sit, quiet and still. I wonder not. I sit and welcome in the lines of dark branches. They sway entangled with each other against the gray of a sky that knew both night and snow.
I sit and sway, quiet. I have drunk in the stillness of the shaded pond and have become. Life swimming, swirling, snogging below the surface within me. But I remain still. And think of it not.
I live and sway, quiet. I need not. Not of things, not of thoughts, not of what has passed nor possibilities.
Stillness
