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.