magnitude
let us be still
at easter.
wandering
through
sugar haze,
avoiding
nocturn calls
to faith
we’ve shed
like desiccating and
pearlescent skins -
still. let there
be silence
somewhere in our
blood, scarlet
like the
feathers of
the phoenix
or the rising sun
behind the
hanged man’s hair.
when we are
still, at easter,
as if enacting
in our bodies
dark dusk on stony ground
as if rehearsing
for the long and low beyond
we are right here.
and the world
is such unfurling green,
that we are
not nothing
in our stillness,
but the music of the magnitude.
we are a thousand
living stones
lit by
the slow quiescence
of unfurling buds.