Our thumbs tucked into fists,
our dreams as deep as oak roots.

Every breath coaxes the stillness
toward movement.

A bird trilling
blinks an eye;
an eyelid flutters in shadow.

Beds empty bodies and bones
onto stone floors,
and blistered feet
step into boots.

We march off into a mirror
and soon discover
someone marching toward us.

Walking, we empty self;
we empty every desire,
except to be received.

Our bare legs become wet
with the dew of daybreak.

The sun is born
in a pool of moonlight.