Numen

I arrive through a hush I almost remember—

a warmth that meets me even before I speak.

The way opens—not forward,

but inward, through stillness beneath effort.

The scent of jasmine drifts from the unseen garden.

Something releases, unnamed yet long carried,

borne on breath older than sorrow or song.

A bell sounds in the marrow—soft, ancient, remembering—

and I am held in a field that moves to my rhythm.

Light gathers here without seeking or striving.

What stays, roots deeper in quiet trust.

What leaves, dissolves like mist beneath morning gold.

And I cross—barefoot, whole, into my becoming.