Scota

I look inside and seek not to hold but to let go.

I see the beauty in form but I strive to let it flow freely

As sand sifting through my fingers,

Spread apart generously like the sieve of boulders through which glacial ice

Oozes down the tilting terrain;

Yet the beauty of her soul penetrates the

Core of my being, and I am shaken,

Supremely humbled by the unaffected grace that

Lingers on my fingertips—

Formless—

A smile to a child—

Whispers again: lullaby—

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