Third Thing

As the mantle of silence

descends amid the din,

and I remember

my past

the way a meadow at midday

remembers

the mists of morning,

the hand of being

rests softly on my head

and all I meet.

I am between then,

a foot to either side,

so all I am

and all I was,

all I cherish

and all I push away,

are one.

In stillness, I lift and drop.

I become an

up-down, high-low thing

and know the song

opposites hum to each other.

I join in,

pitch-tone perfect at last.