The quiet hours...

In the quiet hours of the night, when all I hear are the day's echoes, I whisper to you. About will and about death. In the hours after the sun has set, I contemplate breath and blood and warmth and how my thoughts cycle and spin like snow and dust, blowing in the same wind. When the body cools and the soul awakes. Passes through dirt and leaves, does its gaze fall back to earth? Is death really, as Rilke says, when the living depart from everything in order to reflect upon life? Will my identity remain with my soul when my breath goes or will it decay with my skin and flesh until it is merely an imprint on my bones. If it imprinted on my soul, will it remain intact? Or will it evaporate in space with other minds and memories, floating endlessly? I want to believe that these fragments of past generations, the thoughts and feelings and passions of others no longer living, have combined in me and I will remain long after I die. I long for that quiet place where I can sleep and awake to consider life and eternity.

Not much sense among these words probably...

Contemplation...

Who am I in you?
Who are you in me?
I am the seed,
you are the shell,
but we are both also the other.
I am the fruit,
you are the tree,
but we are both also the other.
I am the branches,
you are the vine,
but we are both also the other.
I am the question.
You are the answer.
But you are both in me
and I am both in you.
I am the words,
You are the whispers,
and together we are the voice.

I seek you in contemplation because I forget you elsewhere. In solitude and silence I pretend to hear you and try to speak some phrase to call your presence to me, when all I really need to do, must do, is be content in the silence because your whispers are quiet and still and spoken to my innermost parts rather than my ears. But that is where the greatest movement is, the greatest change. In my true self that only you know and I catch seldom glances of.