Spiral

 

Here is a spiral.
Here is a sound.
I don’t know which way is up—
or if I am standing.

Here is a calling.
Here is a vision.
I don’t know if I am coming unwound,
or if I am winding inward.

Becoming
and dissolving
held
in the absolute
of all things.

At the center—
the encounter:
the blue night
gone dark with searching
for the blue dawn,
where a pearl takes form
from the inky black
night of absence—

Loss becomes
the grain of sand
around which the oyster
builds a luminous moon
in the night sky—
a night
from which words are born,
and the light is named.

The same word,
glinting in the sun—
from another angle—
changes everything.

It finds its resting place
in gravity,
surrounded
by the immensity
of simplicity.

A simple breath.
A simple truth.
No waves—
only presence.

Now,
loss becomes simple—
a weightless apparition,
an absence,
no different than presence
in the deeper
ground of being.

—Lorena Wolfman (2019, 2025)