A hand at war with itself spills water—
It cannot tell the keeping from the slaughter.
But palms uncurled, freed from their own grip,
Find the river waiting, risen to their lip.

A listening mind is not a bolted door—
It opens like the land to what the heavens pour.
No fist to clutch, no hand to cast it out—
Just rain received on earth long parched by drought.

Let what is rising rise. The crest will break.
The hand that fights the wave drowns for fighting’s sake.
Let it swell, let it sweep, let it spend its crest—
Water finds its level. Then—only rest.

The stone does not seek stillness. It is still.
It does not try to quiet its own will.
Sit like the stone—not grasping, just aware.
The sky holds open. Look up. Meet its stare.

The tree came down. The stump is what remains.
Storms filled the rings—each one a year of rains.
From the wound where bark has dried and curled,
a blind green shoot unfolds toward the world.

And you—still here, still breathing, still awake.
No truth to grasp. No oath you need to make.
Just this: the breath that enters and departs.
The quiet underneath your pounding heart.