Is an open window missing anything --
a pane of glass, a curtain,
a sheet of plywood in case a hurricane looms?
Breezes enter through this window
or should I say where a window was,
there being nothing now but empty space,
no way to separate
the inside from the outside,
where I'm standing now
from where I will be later,
you from me.

Who I am is this empty space,
my home, my lens,
the portal to everything and nothing
the formless one
before a single need arises,
or regret.

Keep this window open wide, my friend,
even in a storm.
While the floor may get soaked
and it will seem as if, sometimes, you are all alone
the tears you shed
will dry everything,
the silence now filled
with the holy thunder of yourself.

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