I haven't approached anything I intended to write; instead I circle the perimeter of myself and of this space, feeling out the spaces beneath the pines, testing the ground at the edge of a drop, placing a sole against the rainslick stacks of logs and moss. I am hunting in unfamiliar grounds, and like any search for prey, for sustenance, it never quite goes as planned.
If anything I am having more room to stretch in myself, in the necessities of myself. Things flow downhill, create scallops of evergreen needles to dry in the mud, gather in small pools that reflect my silhouette back to myself even as the edges shatter with the drops of rain. I watch for fish, for tadpoles. I am content with the quiet. Perhaps more than work, I've needed rest. Perhaps more than complexity, I've needed clarity. Perhaps more than voice, I've needed silence.
I am caught at moments, the wind at my sleeves. I turn towards it, scent the wind, listen for the falling noises of birds. In these spans of time I am allowed to just be: the tension of a lifted foot, the suspense of not knowing, the pure instance of the uncertain spreading out along the nerves of a soul. I allow myself to reach:
all we have needed is space
and in it,
I find you, always you,
the deepest cave.