The still point, a breath held lightly, not by will, but by the absence of it.
Daffodils, yellow bells, nodding, not in agreement, nor submission, but in the silent language of sunlight.
Warmth, a golden river, flowing over petals, over skin, over the unburdened mind.
Birds, small architects of spring, twitching wings, beaks full of frayed twine, building not homes, but moments of future song.
No striving, no grasping, the wanting unspooled, like a thread dropped in still water.
The self, a ripple, spreading, fading, merging, with the mossy earth, the rustling leaves, the sky’s vast blue.
Presence, not a destination, but the very ground beneath, the air within, the light that illuminates.
To sit, to witness, to become, not a separate observer, but a part of the dance, the silent unfolding.
No need for wisdom, no hunger for understanding, just the gentle rhythm of being, the daffodils, the birds, the sun, and the quiet echo of nothing needing to be anything else.
