In the Eye of the Storm

it's the calm

that's worrisome—

that clings to stillness

like chrysalides from a tree:

༄

exoskeletons

of alabaster skin,

so vulnerable,

so fragile

you can see it within

if you look closely,

if you listen carefully.

༄

it's the eye of the storm

opening,

༄

and everything

known—

will transform.

༄

and nothing will

ever be the same,

and yet

something

will remain:

༄

in the garden,

hung upon a branch

or the underside of a leaf—

༄

the skin between two worlds

split,

dangling in its thinness

from what was

to what is.

༄

and there are many

ripe for harvest.

and I gather them too,

in my own garden

where I have sat

in the eye—

listened closely

and passed through the wall.

༄

every storm is unique,

but no less

violent

and necessary.

༄

She is the anchor.

She is the garden.

and perhaps,

she is also the storm.

༄

She is

everything

I gather

worth remembering.