The Cacophony of Roots and Rise
The day. The morning. The dancers. The dance. We—the stillness, the verve, the cacophony of roots and rise of reclamation and rest—dance.
Listen to this poem read by Firth here.
The morning, still, silent.
An absence of something I did not know I have,
wish I had.
Across emptiness, still, silent.
Fullness is present,
it is not that I had.
Do not have.
Boiling bulwark, here the sun, almost.
I am the morning.
It is not that I had,
I have.
The stillness, growing, grow,
gone.
Not gone. Overgrown,
we become.
And she said to me,
the morning,
as she held me
as she let me go—
‘Knowing is release
and letting go is finding
oneself. Not oneself,
ourself.’
The day.
The morning.
The dancers.
The dance.
We—the stillness,
the verve,
the cacophony of roots and rise
of reclamation and rest—
dance.
