The Way of Water
I tried to name the water
but it slipped the word
What I held became shape
what I let go became river
The river flowed
and met its barriers
trials, deception
formidable resistance
It bent but did not break
moved on
and time fell behind
A stillness gathered
so complete
it forgot it had moved
There the river became sky
a mirror scrubbed of clouds
waiting for the next nothing
The stillness opened into silence
deeper than silence
and I stepped inside
I became that hush
and it filled me
not with thoughts
which are only echoes
but with the taste of empty air
Then I knew
I tried to speak
but words were stones
dragging the current backward
I broke the sentence
let the water pass
and meaning dissolved
into everything that is nothing
Far off a flame trembled
I walked toward its bright lesson
Its light scalded my eyes
so I closed them
When I looked again
the flame had thinned to an ember
then slipped into the dark
I returned to the river
It did not remember me
It held no memory, no scar
It only flowed
around the stone
where my name once clung
like moss
Poetry by Jorge R. G. Sagastume
Wildflowers and Butterflies
In their own language
the butterflies
attempt
a writing
as they move east
Not to say something
but to leave
a trace
of having passed
Among them
one
whose name is spoken softly
as if naming it
might shorten
its time
Its wings carry a color
that appears
only briefly
only
when the light agrees
This is the one
those who care
wait for
Their ink trembles
Unsure
Testing
whether the page
is willing
to be altered
The field is empty
Not barren
Empty
the way a bowl is empty
The way a pause is empty
that will be used
again
Flowers wish
to bloom
but learn early
that wishing
is not a force
They continue
east
They have done this before
They will do it
again
The direction matters less
than the movement
that repeats
itself
As distance accumulates
— explained only
by repetition —
their flight steadies
The marks grow firmer
Not clearer
More practiced
The page begins
to receive
Not once
Not finally
But as it has
before
This is what fertility is
not fullness
but readiness
The capacity
to receive again
what will not
remain.
They return
because returning
is the only form
arrival
can take
But not
the rare one
This one passes
once
or passes unseen
or
not at all
What arrives
is not chosen
What is chosen
is the movement
toward arrival
the insistence
of will
Something opaque governs
whether the mark holds
whether the page remembers
whether arrival
was ever more
than a gesture
repeated
Breathing the same sky
A thousand wings rise
yet no one leads
The air arranges itself
into currents
each bird a syllable
in an endless word
The Tao is not the flock
but the space it opens
vast enough
for all to move together
