I am the keeper of usually
vacant spaces. I am the one
who notes how bare the swamp oak grows
as it opens its arms to the wind
in early fall. I notch
the southern skies with gray
before the migratory birds
fly past.

It is not voids
but possibilities I see:
the ribbed hull of a leaf
where tea scale gains
its barnacle grip,
the scalloped calyx cup
where mites drink dry
the bloom.

I am the one who, looking
at my hand, sees not a shape
but all the places
where the hand must go,
and the spaces between fingers
where life like sand escapes
even as I make
a fist.

Keeping Things Whole
by Mark Strand

In a field
I am the absence
of field.
This is always the case.
Wherever I am
I am what is missing.

When I walk
I part the air
and always
the air moves in to fill the spaces
where my body's been.

We all have reasons
for moving.
I move
to keep things whole.

Return to thoughts and musings.

Read between the lines

another dimension of silence