oak ovenbird This oak grows in the space between stars, its heart a nebula, roots flaring into the darkness of earth. I sit in a hollow at the point of gravitational collapse, witnessing something that is neither birth nor death. In the ground below me a million tiny souls lay sleeping: all the furred and feathered things, small and guileless, gather in the living soil. When you, bright one, arrive at the end of your days, this is where you come to find your place in the eternal unfolding. I don’t see you so much as feel you–all potential energy, a spring coiled tight, eyes that won’t stop reflecting the light. You come with a story about a rare capacity for kindness. You know that there is artistry in being held. You don’t have words at all but there is no need for that now, the truth is always evident–you lived and breathed and gave yourself over to the heart of things. You come carrying a name given to you by one who loved you. The oak takes the name in exchange for safe passage and you curl yourself into the arms of silence, wrap yourself in a cloak of woven mercy, and become the stillness that was here before time. The hourglass turns over. 250701 what's it to you? who go blather from