Even the wind hushes,
Even the birds are still.
The dreaming dog lies curled.
Distance muffles a cricket's trill.
Day sleeps on the cloud-pillowed mountains.
Poised at the centre of motion is the spinning world.

Almost I hold it —
The silence in the centre of things.
Almost I softly fold it,
Wrapping dark noises round in loops and rings.
Almost I hear
Something incredibly still —
Oh, blissfully near! —