One early Sunday morning. A quiet stillness. The air is cool. The flowers say nothing. I am silent. I am engaged in a silent communion with nature while my thoughts float softly and freely with the movement of time. There is healing in being fully present in the beauty and mystery of the first light of the morning. It is a gift. And yet, there is this deep longing in my heart. How strange, how strange, how poetic. And then this short poem speaks deeply to me:
Come quickly – as soon as
these blossoms open,
This world exists
as a sheen of dew on flowers.
How strange, how poetic, how fleeting, how true.
(The poem is from the book, The Ink Dark Moon, by Jane Hirshfield with Mariko Aratani)