It's as if the dying light is water music,
great nocturne, the painting of so much to come.
How it all moves in waves.
I see it in the clouds above
caressed by variation,
a libretto of air against their chests.
Each word tumbles
and each is the caller of your name,
my ear is like a shell that listens.
The breath I take is your breath,
and the moon that comes to shape itself is a song.
by Auguste Rodin, 1908
We are building a space so full of sighs,
so full of a language that no longer needs words, only lips
and the pressing together of skin.
What we need is embrace, but we hover inside this hesitation
almost touching, almost there inside a gentle moment.
We exist in the in-between and we’re so full with prayer.