The Still

In the very center of the hurricane lives the Quiet. I am that Hurricane. The Quiet lies there, in a deep cave, far beneath my feet. It is like a sweet water spring that sends drops and trickles into the world around me; drops fragrant as night jasmine; of satisfaction hard-won; of experiences and foods well digested. In the Aha! of intricate understanding that comes as an orgasm and shifts the mind into a snug cocoon or a parachute bloom. Of expansion, a fog that comes from the ground and holds hands with the clouds. A star filled night; the everlasting, the infinite. The farthest reach, the center of the desert. The oldest wood of a massive and ancient oak. An attic full of cobwebs and memories. The windy tip of the tall mountain. The deep mossy heart of a cedar forest. Next to a growing pearl. In the closed flower before dawn. Held by every rock and in the nearness of you; the Quiet.