Upon Sitting With the Stars

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Status: In Progress  |  Genre: Religion and Spirituality  |  House: Booksie Classic
Written at outside at night over a three day silent retreat. As with most of my better work, I did not edit it once while writing, for I had so little light that I could barely see what I was writing, much less go back and revise.

Submitted: June 23, 2016

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Submitted: June 23, 2016



Upon sitting with the stars, 
In silence in the cold,
A wind blows upon my side,
I, a mere disturbance for the passing breeze,
Wait for the words to come.
Words, like the wind, flow around,
My mind a mere disturbance.
A few catch, as they will.

Upon sitting by the river,
In silence under the stars,
The silence not so quiet,
My self not so detached…

The train storms by,
One southbound, one north
(Or was it the other way?)
Shattering the night quiet.
But so too does the goose’s call,
And so too does my breathing,
And so too does the scratch of my pen,
Yet it is silent still
Because the world too is still
(Or is it I who am at rest?)

I am,
I am here,
Sitting on this bench under the stars,
Feeling this cold,
Remembering my memories.
Yet I too am there, to the south,
Where my heart is…

Now too harshly does the cold rush at me.
Skin cracks, knuckles bleed.
I will go inside,
And be there
But I too will still be here,
For a piece of me is resting
And ever resting will be
Sitting under the stars,
In the loud silence of the train, the goose,
And the pen.

© Copyright 2019 Waldo Proseman. All rights reserved.

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